


The Cherry Hung With Snow

by Hermaline75



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But maybe not who you expect, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Journalism, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rock Stars, Sibling Incest, Touring, or not just them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 18:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 42,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermaline75/pseuds/Hermaline75
Summary: Fresh out of her journalism major, Edith is shocked when she gets the job of a lifetime, following British brother/sister band Crimson Peak on their epic tour to break America, even if it means temporarily leaving her life behind.But eccentricity is one thing. The Sharpes may be quite another.





	1. Meeting in Buffalo

**Author's Note:**

> Road trip anyone?
> 
> (In case you're interested, 'A Little More Than Kin and Less Than Kind' is not dead, it's just sleeping and probably has a couple more chapters to go, one of which is currently under construction. It's just taking a while to knock into place, trying not to tread over old ground too much. It's being very unhelpful.)

_"So dedicate it to me_  
_When there's no more words to say_  
_When your lips are cracked and dry_  
_I know you'll cry out for me..."_

"Who're these vampires then?"

Edith almost jumped out of her skin, headphones rudely lifted from her head and laptop dangerously jostled.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," she complained.

Alan mumbled something about being her best bet to survive if that happened, rattling in the fridge for yesterday's leftovers.

"You didn't answer," he said. "Who are you looking at so intently? Trying internet dating again?"

She sighed, stretching for the first time in hours, toes curling on the inside of her knit socks and scalp feeling so much better for a bit of rubbing. How had it got so late? She should have been in bed hours before Alan got in from his hospital shift.

"It's research," she said. "Job interview. Of sorts."

"Of sorts?"

She sighed. It was difficult to explain without sounding ridiculous. Probably because it was.

"They're a rock band looking for a tour writer. Lucille and Thomas Sharpe, AKA Crimson Peak."

Alan snorted as he set the microwave whirring, coming to look over her shoulder as she scrolled through their Instagram page.

"Crimson Peak, huh? Sounds like period sex."

"Why are you always so gross?"

"I'm a doctor. We have our embarrassment glands surgically removed, you know that. So, what's their deal? White Stripes-style married couple band?"

Edith scrolled through a few more pictures before responding. Thomas Sharpe tuning up his guitar in moody black and white and photographed walking away into a nebulous misty morning, the dawn sparkling a thousand times in the water collecting in his hair. Lucille at the piano making notes on hand-drawn music manuscript and in an antique bathtub, her breasts floating in the clear water but concealed by the reflected light, her eyes huge and dark and arresting.

"No, they're more like The Carpenters in that sense," she said, trying to stay in the conversation. "Brother and sister. Not musically. They'd probably be offended by the comparison either way, though."

"Are you sure? I mean, I've never looked at Eunice the way he's looking at her there."

"Yeah, well, Eunice isn't your professional and creative partner. It's different, probably."

The microwave dinged as Edith clicked back over to her document of facts, trying to remember them as much as possible.

"How big a tour is it?" Alan called. "State-wide?"

"No, bigger. Way bigger. They're well-known in Europe, if a little cult. Now they want to crack America and they mean crack it. A gig in every state except Hawaii and Alaska."

The warm smell of macaroni rolled over her, good old-fashioned comfort food, as Alan flopped into the threadbare couch opposite. It was unfair, really. He had to be burning stupid levels of calories running around the hospital to get away with what he ate.

"That would be months," he said, frowning. "What about the rent?"

"It is a paid gig, you know. In the unlikely event I got it, the money would go into my account and be there for the rent as usual. But I won't get it. I'm too inexperienced, especially on the music journalism front. I don't even know why I'm invited to meet them. It's like they've deliberately gone looking for nobodies."

"Huh... Well, maybe that's what they want. Someone fresh. Someone to discover. You interested?"

"In a paying job? Sure. And in them, I guess. They're very mysterious. They contradict themselves all the time. I mean, I found an article from England in 2013 where they say they're orphans, but then 2015 in Italy, they talk like their parents are still alive. And the TV interviews... They're just weird."

She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but the Sharpes always seemed to be having fun at the interviewer's expense. They seemed to be highly intelligent, but would deliberately misunderstand questions, smiling at each other before giving obtuse answers, being as evasive as they could possibly be.

The sensible side of her wanted to steer clear of such evidently manipulative people.

The journalist in her wanted nothing more than to try to to get under their skin, to try to uncover the real them.

And she loved their sound. Or maybe 'loved' was a strong word, but it was certainly interesting. They were self-taught multi-instrumentalists - or so they claimed, anyway - and their music erred towards a dark moodiness, a restrained anger, their voices blending constantly and swapping lines and harmonies so often that you sometimes lost track of which of them was singing what.

"But I'll never get it," Edith said. "Never in a million years."

That was still the attitude rolling through her head when she arrived at the small office they'd rented downtown for the interview, joining a whole line of other nervous faces.

Much like her, they'd obviously agonised about what to wear. The men were a mish-mash of faded classic rock band t-shirts, dark suits and one or two aping Thomas's stage style of crisp white shirts and eye-liner, hair artfully touselled. The women were much the same, one looking thoroughly self-conscious and rather chilly in a black satin corset and little else, most looking anxious.

Edith was already wondering if she'd chosen the wrong look. It was one of the smartest outfits she owned, a neat pencil-skirt and matching blazer in peach. It brought out what little colour there was in her cheeks. But maybe with her hair tied up so tightly, so proper, so elementary school teacher, they'd reject her out of hand. She hardly looked like a rock journalist after all. Opera maybe. Certainly not laid back enough for life on the road.

The line seemed interminable, and yet all too soon she was passing through the doors of a small meeting room and finally seeing the Sharpes for the first time in the flesh.

They were beautiful. That was her first thought. Smooth skin and bright eyes, effortlessly casual, dark hair swept back from their faces. They weren't twins, she knew, and yet they might have been. They were that similar.

"Smile, please."

She didn't have a chance to react before a flash almost blinded her, an old-style Poloroid camera whirring. Lucille plucked the square little picture from it and shook it lazily, taking the lid from a marker pen with her teeth.

"Name?" Thomas asked.

"I, er... Cushing. Edith Cushing."

He chuckled.

"Sharpe. Thomas Sharpe. And this is my sister, Lucille. But you knew that, I expect."

Edith watched as her name was neatly inked onto the white edge of the photograph and saw it placed on the table among many others. She looked pale, washed out from the flash. There was a tall pile of discarded pictures, people already rejected.

"Where did you get a Poloroid?" she heard her own voice ask. "I didn't think they made those anymore."

"The internet is an incredible thing, Miss Cushing," Lucille said. "Don't you agree? I'm sure you've relied on it heavily for your research on us."

This was so strange. Edith felt like she was off the map, unsure where to tread and where to avoid. Honesty seemed best though.

"I certainly had a long look at your Instagram and Twitter," she said. "You clearly have a love of photography."

The Sharpes shared a long look before turning back to her, like cats playing with a doomed mouse.

"We've used it to our advantage," Thomas said. "A few million followers is very nice. But we've decided we want to do something a little different on this tour."

"Do you know shorthand?" Lucille asked.

Edith found herself blinking stupidly, taking a moment to replay the question in her head. They were testing her, seeing how she'd react to being off-balance.

"Yes. I learned it in junior high. Well, not _in_ junior high, but when I was at junior high. I wanted... I always wanted to be a writer."

"Not a journalist?"

"Not specifically."

There was something about the two of them. Some magnetism, something making her want to talk to them despite her instinctive wariness..

"The trouble with social media is that it's made everything too easy," Thomas said. "At any second of the day, our fans have access to us. Or a filtered version of us at least. Most can't remember a time of having to wait for news of their favourite band. We want to recapture that bygone era. The excitement, the mystery."

Lucille unfolded a map, 48 cities marked with circular stickers.

"A tour with no internet," she said. "No mobile... Sorry, no cellphones. No digital cameras, no vlogging. A travelling journalist who will write dispatches for magazines on both sides of the Atlantic by typewriter and post them through the mail along with Poloroids from the shows and behind the scenes. The whole thing will be collected and added to any unpublished work and photos for a coffee table book. Writer's by-line, of course."

Edith's head whirled. This was ridiculous. An old-fashioned tour, meeting deadlines by post, typed articles, no handy delete key, no copy/paste? But a published book at the end of it. An exciting experiment. Practically art.

"Would you be paying in cash as well?" she asked. "The old-fashioned way?"

"Oh, no," Thomas said. "Accommodation, meals and transport included, plus wages paid automatically. We know you journalists have rent to pay. And, of course, a percentage of the profits of the book goes without saying."

"Do you live alone?" Lucille asked.

"No. No, I live with an old friend. He's a doctor. Or... No, he is. He's a resident."

She didn't know why she was telling them that. It was hardly relevant.

"Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Both?"

"Erm..." she felt herself blushing, finally drawing a line in the sand as far as her life story went. "No, neither at the moment. No one to miss me."

Another long look. Thomas picked up her picture, raising his eyebrows as he placed it to the side. Lucille shrugged one shoulder, but nodded, reaching for her purse.

"Come to our show tonight," she said, handing Edith a ticket. "Write a stop-press report on it, by hand, and give it to one of the security guys. We have your number. We'll be in touch."

Edith sat still for a moment, stunned. Then she stumbled to her feet, mumbling thanks and showing herself out.

A hand-written report, written on the night of the show? She'd never heard of such a thing. Then again, everything about the last twenty minutes had felt like a particularly odd dream.

It didn't stop feeling like that when she walked into the venue, showing her ticket only to be frogmarched over to a little holding pen. Judging by the other people in there, this was the journalists' section. A dark-haired, thin man with constantly moving eyes, a red-haired woman so statuesque she might have been carved from marble. Edith suddenly felt very out of her depth, very underprepared. And very short.

It was a small-ish venue, not an arena by any means, more like an old bar that had had all its walls knocked through to make a sort of concert hall.

There was a gentle hubbub. Not particularly excited murmuring, just quiet conversation, someone laughing at the bar. People who had come out to hear a band, but weren't too fussed about what kind.

Edith had watched videos of Crimson Peak in action. Shaky camera work, mainly from phones. People singing along in France, Italy, Spain, Germany, Poland, Slovakia, Sweden, almost drowning out the Sharpes with their devotion. She'd thought the shows looked strange. Intimate even in huge stadiums, theatrical even in dive bars.

It was so different in person.

The lights were dim when they started singing. No words, just notes that sounded almost improvised. Lucille set out a phrase, Thomas elaborated on it, she harmonised, and then it began to repeat and the lights came up to reveal them both in front of ancient-looking electronic keyboards, setting their voices into loops, adding synthesized organ tones and the wail of a theramin, summoning an ethereal choir of their own voices out of nothing, layering and layering and layering and...

Silence.

The whole room seemed to hold its breath for a few moments, spellbound. The first clap sounded confused, but then the applause began in earnest, a room of people who hadn't quite expected something like that.

And they were stunning. Beautiful, yes, but more importantly imposing. They didn't have stage presence, they _were_ the stage. They had eyes only for each other and yet whenever one of them glanced outward, a shiver seemed to run through the room. When they spoke to the crowd in low, warm voices, like lovers murmuring in the night, it felt as though they were speaking to each and every individual.

It was like they had studied how to activate primal responses. How to enchant, how to mesmirise.

After three songs, Edith realised she hadn't written a single word. All around her, pens were scratching and she hadn't even opened her note book.

But what could she write? What was there to say that wasn't being written all around her a thousand times more eloquently?

This was pointless. Might as well enjoy the show.

They sang numbers she'd learned during her research and pieces she'd never heard before. They played snippets of Beethoven and Mozart and... and the Beach Boys, she was sure that was the Beach Boys.

When it becames obvious that they were winding up, Edith finally put pen to paper and figured she might as well be honest too.

_Until two days ago, I had never heard of Crimson Peak. After seeing them in action, I'm still not quite sure what to make of them. But I know they're interesting. Very much so..._

She tried to hand in her writing, all half page of it in sloppy shorthand - just to prove she could - but the security guard refused to take it.

"You need to sign first," he yelled over the sound of the crowd leaving.

"Sign what?"

"Contract. Says they can publish whatever you wrote in their book or something."

Well, fine. They wouldn't want it, other than as a piece of trivia. One of many rejects. She added her name to the list and went to join the taxi line, shivering in the cold. She ought to walk, she knew. Save a little cash. But it was freezing out in the spring night and she was tired and her ears were still ringing.

And Alan would tell her off for that. He'd given her those earplugs for a reason.

"Good night?" the driver asked as she got in.

"Um... Sure."

It was easier to lie. Explaining that she genuinely didn't know how she felt would be too complex.

She got home and almost fell into bed, barely managing to change first. She felt like she'd been dancing all night for all she'd barely moved.

A nice day in pyjamas was called for.

She never got the chance for it.


	2. An Offer That's Hard to Refuse

The apartment phone rang at seven in the morning. Edith ignored it. They only had that phone as part of their internet package. Only telemarketers ever called it.

It rang over and over again while her head was under her pillow, and then Alan was in her doorway in his boxer shorts, yawning and telling her there was a man on the phone for her.

She grunted and hauled herself to her feet. What was so important? What couldn't wait?

"Hello?"

"Miss Cushing, good morning. We liked what you wrote very much."

Thomas Sharpe. His voice, the clipped vowels, the sudden realisation was like an ice cube down her spine, shocking her awake. She wasn't ready for the rejection call, not this early, not wearing a faded old t-shirt and leaning on the wall of their hallway, wires tangled on the floor.

"It was very honest," Lucille's voice and Edith winced as she realised they'd put her on speaker.

A strange image of the pair of them laughing as they called each hopeful sprang into her mind, taking pleasure in crushing false hopes. Maybe the successful candidate was there too, already part of their strange games.

"Refreshingly free of clichés too."

"Thank you," she mumbled.

"We'd like to invite you to be our tour writer."

She blinked. She couldn't have heard that correctly. Or it was some kind of joke.

"What?"

"You're exactly what we're looking for," Thomas said. "We want someone fresh, someone new. Not a hard-forged cynic or a devoted fan. How better to reach a new audience than through the eyes of a newcomer?"

"Edith, you are perfect," Lucille now. "No commitments, no partner, no children... No reason you can't take a few months to travel the country and help us create something unique. Fresh from college, a new voice. Unless... Unless you have family to take care of."

It was almost like she knew somehow. Like in that short meeting, she'd picked up on it, spotted some sign that told her that wasn't a problem.

"I... No. No, I don't."

"So you accept," Thomas said. A statement, not a question.

"Well, I... I'll have to think about it. I mean, no phone, so I'll have to make a note of my emergency numbers. I'll need to get a huge paper supply, and... And set up automatic payment for my rent and talk to my room-mate. And what about laundry?"

Laughter. They really were laughing at her.

"You see?" Thomas said. "Practicality. Thoughtfulness. Pragmatism. That is what we want. And honesty, of course. Come and meet with us again. We can talk the whole thing over."

She agreed, writing the time and place on her arm before practically sliding down the wall to lay the phone back in its cradle, head in her hands.

Get on a bus with no phone and travel around 48 states with some eccentric strangers? It was stupid, reckless... A once in a lifetime opportunity though.

Should she do this? Could she? Or should she tell them no and spend the rest of her life wondering what if? What if she'd gone, what if she'd written that book?

What was there for her here? Sending off freelance piece after freelance piece while her savings dwindled ever further, looking for a job just to make ends meet? Knowing she hadn't taken a chance literally handed to her.

There was Alan, she supposed. Could she leave him all alone for all that time? Well, not alone. His family dropped round often enough. He'd probably be fine. He'd probably love having full control of the bathroom.

But she should probably talk to him about it first. With coffee as a placating gift.

He groaned when she opened the door, mumbling about night shift, but sitting up frowning as she explained it all from a careful perch on the edge of his bed.

"So... So you're considering it?" he asked.

She shrugged, tracing circles on the duvet with the tip of one finger.

"Maybe. There's no harm in meeting them, right? And I can decide then."

He fixed her with one of his more serious looks, a doctor look, and she groaned internally before he could even start speaking.

"Are you sure you're well enough to do something like this?" he asked. "It will be stressful. You have to put yourself first, no matter what."

She sighed and tried not to be angry with him. He was trying to look out for her, trying to look after her.

"Alan, I got through my finals and... And everything else just fine. I'm not worried about that. Besides, sitting around here is hardly helping. Maybe it's exactly what I need... Something completely different."

He was still giving her that look, but he shrugged and finally agreed that just meeting the Sharpes couldn't hurt, but that she mustn't be afraid to say no to them.

"And dress normal! They can't expect you to be in a suit all the time."

He probably had a point. They had been casual yesterday, why shouldn't she be too? If she went on this trip, they'd probably see her in all kinds of getups. Unless there was some clause that said she had to wear Crimson Peak merchandise at all times or something.

The meeting place was their hotel, a small family-run business in the centre of town. Not exactly where you'd expect an internationally renowned band to be staying, but so little about them was what she expected that Edith couldn't even be surprised. The teenage girl on reception looked at her curiously and pointed her along to the stairs, up to the second floor.

Well, if they were murderers, they certainly had their location right. Every step creaked, every door squeaked and even the locks looked as though they'd make hideous noises if anything even remotely key-like was brought near them.

She knocked at room 23, trying to ignore the way her heart was hammering.

"Come in."

If the corridors had been spooky, at least the rooms showed effort. Very clean, bright bedsheets, scatter cushions on the small couch they'd managed to squeeze in alongside the twin beds. Not that the Sharpes were using it. They were on the floor, surrounded by pieces of paper, a laptop whirring and glowing, paper plates covered in little sandwiches that looked like they'd come from a gas station.

"I am not sure if the Sharpe siblings are pathological liars," Lucille read out loud. "But I do know that they sometimes lie. This adds to the appeal, of course - fascination with the unknown. The fact that people believe whatever they say seems to amuse them. If they ever told the truth, it would probably be hard to tell."

She looked up over the top of it and Edith knew she'd blushed bright red. Yes, she had written that, hadn't she? She'd called them liars and implied they had borderline contempt for their fans, or at the very least deemed them mostly stupid and enjoyed making fun of them.

"Honesty," Thomas said, laughter in his eyes. "Something we are missing, apparently."

"I... I mean, when I wrote that I... Well, I didn't expect you to actually read it. I thought... I thought you'd pick someone better long before you got to my piece."

They looked at one another, smiles tugging at their lips.

"Come, sit down," Lucille said, reaching for a cushion. "Have a sandwich. We have sparkling water. Unless you'd prefer sparkling wine."

"Oh, er... No, water is fine. Thank you."

She sipped from the little glass bottle nervously, waiting for the ordeal to begin.

"So..." Thomas said. "We have a few forms for you to fill in. Bank details, insurance, publication contract. Do you have a passport? Can you travel into Canada?"

"I'm sorry?"

"We're going to Niagara Falls before the tour starts," Lucille said. "And apparently the Canadian side is more impressive."

"And though our itinerary does not hinge on taking the direct route north, it would make it easier if we could cross over the border to cut between New Hampshire and Michigan."

Edith stammered slightly.

"Yes, I have a passport."

"Excellent."

"But... But I haven't said yes yet."

They stared at her, Lucille frowning as though utterly baffled and Thomas looking concerned. The carbon dioxide from the water was bubbling uncomfortably in her stomach."

"Miss Cushing," Thomas said carefully.

"Edith. Using my full name makes me nervous."

He smiled.

"Edith... Perhaps we have approached this a little strongly. You must understand that we have been planning this project for over a year. Plotting the route, applying for working visas, sorting out the legalities of employing other people, organising the venues and hotels and motels and budget and so on. It has been quite a task. It must be a little overwhelming, having it suddenly laid out in front of you."

"A little," she agreed.

"Alright. How can we make this easier for you? The decision, I mean."

Well, wasn't that a heavy question? Really, there was no way, just like a mountain couldn't be made suddenly smaller.

"It's just a bit of a whirlwind," she said, looking at the patterned carpet. "It's so fast. I don't know..."

She got the distinct feeling that Lucille was exasperated and trying to hide it. Her nostrils were slightly flared, her dark nails tapping against her thigh. Edith swallowed hard.

"We'd be off by the end of the week, right?"

"The first gig is in New Haven, Connecticut, on Saturday. We realise that for so many performances, no magazine is going to print an article on all of them. Most of your work would be sent directly to our publisher in London, along with pictures."

"And would you... Would you read what I wrote before I sent it?"

A moment of silence and another look. If there was ever a time that Edith thought she might believe in telepathy, it was around the Sharpes.

"Giving up a little control," Thomas said.

"Full creative control given to an expert in the field," said Lucille. "Unedited truth."

"Pure observation."

They seemed excited by it. Edith had expected them to demand to see every keystroke, every speck of punctuation.

"Your writing," Lucille said. "Your words. We will forbid any editing except in cases of typing errors. And we will read the finished work at the same time as our fans, in the final book."

"And what if... What if you don't like what you read?" Edith asked.

"Have you never heard the expression 'There's no such thing as bad publicity'?"

It certainly sounded exciting. Nowhere else would offer her that kind of creative freedom. Not even novelists could bypass the editor. But maybe that was a good thing. What if her writing was awful, what if...?

They pushed a clipboard into her hands, forms to fill out, a map of the tour route. She looked at the squiggling line, like a great snake meandering around the country. She'd never travelled so extensively. Never got the chance to. Might not again.

Now or never. Bravery or fear.

Her hand shook slightly as she began putting in her details. Name, address, social security number, insurance...

Next of kin. Um. She frowned lightly before putting Alan down. He was close enough to being family to count.

The main contract promised her food, board, travel and minor expenses, plus a moderate fee. It would easily cover her rent and more besides. 40% of profits from the book - 20% going to the publisher and 40% to the Sharpes themselves.

And then she turned to the last page. The list of things banned from the tour. Cellphones, computers, internet, digital cameras...

Well, maybe it would be good to try out a simpler lifestyle. People managed without such things for centuries. A few months, a digital detox as they said.

Besides, she'd hardly miss much.

She signed and dated the form, feeling a great rush of exhilaration that was almost immediately replaced by crushing anxiety as she handed the clipboard back.

"Thank you, Edith," Lucille said. "And we have some presents for you."

The first was an enormous old typewriter, clunky but somehow beautiful in its function, along with several mile's worth of ink ribbon and corrective fluid.

The second was a diary.

"We've put in all the dates, all the stops," Thomas said. "And there's a space at the front for all your important phone numbers. After all, hotel lines and payphones are allowed."

Edith mumbled her thanks, still feeling like she must be in a dream, especially as Lucille patted the space on the floor between her and Thomas.

"Come here, then," she said. "We must introduce our followers to the woman who will be their only link to us during this tour. And wish them farewell. The only activity on any of our social media accounts will be done from London, listing the show dates. And maybe they'll scan in a Poloroid or two. Come, sit."

They took the picture with the laptop webcam, Thomas on Edith's left, looking at her with that strange dark smoulder he wore on stage. She hadn't seen it at all when he wasn't performing. Lucille smiled sardonically into the camera, red lipstick making her face seem ever paler, ever more porcelain smooth.

Between them, Edith thought she looked like a mannequin. A resuscitation prop. They were real and vibrant and she was dull, barely present. Not even smiling, really.

_Crimson Peak are proud to introduce Edith Cushing, who will be reporting and authoring the book on our first American tour, #Titleless._

They said they'd come by with the bus on Friday to pick her up.

Only the typewriter sitting in its case on the kitchen table helped convince her she hadn't dreamed the whole thing.

And it was only hours later that she realised she hadn't actually said the word "yes" before they'd given her the forms to sign.


	3. Fear of Falling

_Who is she? Never heard of her._

_She's cute. Doesn't look like your type tho._

_Bet she doesn't know who you even are._

_Venha para o Brasil, vou lhe mostrar um bom tempo._

_Bitch. Why didn't you pick meeee?_

_She has no idea what she's getting herself into, does she?_

_I want to punch her right in her fucking mouth. You should have got a real fan for this._

_I'd fuck her. Bet Thomas does within the week._

_A szemei! Elájul!_

_Don't leave us, I'll die._

Edith sighed. She'd told herself not to look at the picture because the comments were unlikely to be complimentary, but then she'd looked anyway. It could have been worse, she knew. Far worse. But still. It was hard to read strangers judging her.

The pinned tweet at the top of their feed announced their upcoming absence. She did a similar thing with a status on Facebook on the offchance that anyone missed or worried about her. It got a scattering of likes, the usual well-meaning old friends asking if she was OK or wishing her luck with it. Painfully ordinary for what felt like a momentus decision.

The typewriter caught her eye as she closed the screen, sitting on the kitchen table still in the squat case built to carry it in. She'd never used one before. It probably wasn't difficult, but she figured she ought to try it sooner rather than later. There would be no handy googling of how to thread the ink ribbon - if that was even the right word - or free a seized... whatever the letter stick parts were called. Arms, maybe?

She fetched some paper from her clattering old printer and practically forced it into the mechanism. The first piece tore, but she got the hang of it quickly enough. The keys were so strange, firm to press, springing back up under her fingers. Not quite the same as the soft, responsive - over responsive maybe - keyboards she was used to.

_e-d-i-t-h... edith_

Capitals though, she would need to...

The shift key took some effort to press and moved the entire wall of metal letters up to press a second, uppercase character to the ink. Oh... It _shifted_ them. Well, that made sense, didn't it? She was amazed she'd never realised that before.

What to type? Just to try it out.

Shift, clack, clack, clack, clack, shift, clack, clack, clack...

_All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy._

Ha.

There was a little bell that dinged when she was approaching the edge of the paper, a little warning sound. Funny. In films, she'd always somehow thought the ding was caused by pushing the paper carriage back across. Which made little sense, now she thought of it.

She liked it. And felt almost embarrassed for liking it. She'd never used one, had never seen one up close, so how could she possibly feel this nostalgic glow for it?

Typical pretentious hipster journalist.

Still, there was something about seeing the instant thunk of metal against ink and paper, seeing each letter appear one by one, so neat and crisp. The feeling of it beneath her hands, firm and yielding to pressure, mechanical and somehow friendly. She could already see herself at a hotel room desk, middle of the night, a distant rumble of a post-show party as she typed up disjointed notes into proper, flowing prose... For some reason, there was an ash tray smouldering in her fantasy, even though she didn't smoke.

Alan would probably worry that she'd imagined being separate from other people, not with the band at their party but working all by herself. He always worried.

Even knowing that, she wasn't quite prepared for the way his jaw dropped when she told him she had signed all the forms and would be leaving on Friday.

"I... I thought..."

"What?"

He hesitated and she almost knew what he was about to say, but didn't want to believe it.

"I didn't think you'd actually accept."

Bristling a little was inevitable. Didn't he hear how patronising that sounded? Like she couldn't be trusted to make her own decisions or look after herself.

"Why wouldn't I? It's a huge opportunity. People would kill for this chance, probably."

"But... But the cellphone ban. You'll be completely cut off."

"Not completely. I'll call you all the time from the hotels. And I'll write. You'll get actual letters in the mail for once. It'll be fun."

"What about the news? You'll be last to hear everything."

"There are still print newspapers, you know. And you're always telling me that current affairs overdosing is bad for me. I'll survive. I'll have a bunch of wonderful experiences and tell stories about it for the rest of my life."

He sighed heavily.

"You practised saying that before I got in, didn't you?"

She had. And why not? This was going to be a calm conversation and she was not going to let herself worry that she'd made the wrong decision.

He sat down, the typewriter still on the table, looking at it curiously and flicking the little bell with one finger to hear it ring.

"I'll miss you," he said. "That's what I'm trying to say. And I'll worry, probably."

She pressed her lips together, trying to breathe steadily.

"I'll miss you too. And I... I put you down as my next of kin on the form. I hope that's OK."

He seemed surprised at first and then nodded almost grimly. It made sense. Who else could she have realistically put?

"Are you sure you're going to be alright out there?"

"Of course. Chance of a lifetime. Moving forward and all that."

She forced herself to smile.

Friday rolled around far too quickly. She felt like she'd hardly packed at all, even with two large bags and the typewriter. Then again, she really only needed clothes. Her computer and phone and all their associated wires and chargers were locked into drawers on her desk, paper pads and notebooks in their place in her backpack. There would be opportunities to do laundry. Shoes were her biggest problem. Comfortable day to day sneakers on her feet, neat pumps just in case, red heels that hurt and made her feel ridiculous, but maybe she'd want them...

She thought the buzzer was the mailman until she heard Alan talking to someone in the hallway.

Looking out through the smallest possible gap between door and frame, she felt her stomach lurch. The Sharpes walking in, looking faintly unreal and out of place in their little apartment. Alan was loudly showing them through to the living room as an attempted warning, asking if they wanted coffee. They asked for tea. Of course they did...

Edith rushed to her mirror, brushing her hair, wishing she'd straightened it or curled it properly, anything but the frizz it had settled itself in, knowing she wouldn't have time to do any makeup. The heels and brush landed in the top of her larger bag before she zipped it shut and hauled it onto her back, like a turtle beneath a huge shell.

"Hello!" she said brightly, eyes downcast as she shuffled into the living room, not ready to look at them fully. "I wasn't expecting you so early."

Alan was filling an ancient kettle that probably belonged to the tenant before the tenant before the tenant before they moved in. Did they even have tea? Oh, dear...

"We told you about Niagara Falls, didn't we?" Lucille asked, shoes on the floor so she could curl up in one of the armchairs like an enormous cat. "A local girl like you must have been hundreds of times. We thought you could show it to us. And besides, it's about time Thomas did some heavy bag lifting. We couldn't possibly leave you to carry everything by yourself."

"Oh. Well, that's very kind of you, but I'd have managed."

Alan had emptied two cupboards and suddenly held a dog-eared cardboard box of teabags triumphantly above his head. God only knew how long that had been rattling around.

"How does everyone take it?" he asked, trying to be subtle as he read the instructions.

"Oh, Lucille likes her tea as she likes her men," Thomas said.

"Sweet?" Edith guessed.

"Lemony and dark. No milk for her and just a splash for me. No sugar, thank you."

"We're saccharine enough already," Lucille said.

There was an awkward silence as Alan made tea to the best of his ability, unearthing an ancient bottle of lemon juice from the fridge. Edith was deeply grateful that Lucille was scanning their bookshelf with what appeared to be a mix of amusement and curiosity and therefore not seeing what was about to be inflicted upon her. Edith felt restless next to such stillness, pulling out a couple of small tables from a nest covered in envelopes and junk mail.

She was horribly aware of every crumb on the carpet, every stain on their furniture, the fact that they hadn't dusted in weeks, or was it months?

"Is this your father?" Thomas asked from behind her.

Edith span round to find him holding it, the only photograph she had on display, the brass-effect frame and plastic protecting a picture of her father with his arm around her shoulders, smiling proudly. Alan had taken it on the morning of their high school graduation, before they'd put on their gowns.

"Yes, it is," she said, resisting the urge to take it out of his hands and carefully put it back on the shelf in its proper place.

"And how does he feel about you running away with the circus, as it were?"

"He, um..." Deep breath. "He passed away last year."

It still hurt. And it was the one place where words didn't seem nearly enough. She couldn't express the pain, physically did not have the ability.

He looked at her, eyes full of sympathy, but not pity. It was a subtle difference, but one she appreciated.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, putting it back, taking care to straighten it.

"Tea!" Alan said brightly, even managing to spirit up a tray from somewhere.

He was good at this, polite conversation. Asking about the tour and their music and travel. Good bedside manner, as they said.

Edith was barely listening. What _would_ her dad say if he was still here? Would he be encouraging her or warning her? It was difficult to say. He'd always told her to follow her ambitions but he was never a fan of rash decisions.

She wished she'd been able to talk to him about it.

They finished their tea, bitter on her tongue, and she could put it off no longer. Alan and Thomas helped her carry her bags down the stairs and to what she supposed could charitably be called a bus. A mini-bus maybe. It was old and gray, sliding doors on the sides that seemed to scrape as they were opened.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Thomas said, carefully placing the typewriter into the back as Lucille climbed up into the driver's seat. "First thing we bought in dollars."

"She's certainly something," Alan said, his face not hiding his true feelings at all.

He hugged Edith tightly, his arms seeming to completely envelope her as he made her promise to call and promise to write. She knew better than to tell him not to worry. He would anyway.

She waved at him until they turned out of her street, heading through town.

"Your friend is jealous," Lucille said, glancing left and right at traffic lights.

"What? Alan? No. He's just... No."

In the rearview mirror, she caught a little snippet of an expression that said Lucille was not buying that for a second. But she was definitely wrong. Alan had know her for a long time, he'd seen all her ups and all her downs. He'd just be worrying like he always did.

"So are you going to be sharing the driving?" Edith asked, trying to change the subject.

"Alas, no," Thomas said. "With the trailer back at the hotel and everything being on the wrong side of the road, we decided we ought to get a professional. We'll meet her after we see the Falls and then it's off to Detroit."

"Have you been?" Lucille asked.

"To Detroit? No. It's close though. Three or four hours through Canada I think. But... But I thought you said we were going to Connecticut first?"

"My mistake," Thomas said. "Wrong itinerary page. That comes much later."

"Geography was never exactly his strong suit," Lucille said. "Misread the map, didn't realise driving all the way across New York State made no sense."

"That's why she does the planning and I focus on enjoying myself."

Edith made herself smile, wondering what it must be like to be so laid back as to completely mistake your next destination and yet not care. But she was more thinking about the idea of the driver. A female driver, another outsider. Maybe someone she could bond with.

She'd have to wait and find out. Lucille was heading out towards the freeway, towards Canada and waterfalls and months of the unknown.

Please let this have been a good idea.


	4. Off and Away

Edith had indeed been to Niagara Falls many times. Half an hour away, it had been the site of many school trips down the years. But crossing over to the Canadian side was at least going to be a little novel.

Still, it was 30 minutes when surely she was on the clock, as it were. Maybe not a full-scale interview, but she should start getting to know them. Gaining their confidence. Learning about them.

Maybe that was why other journalists had fallen foul of their tricks. They hadn't had time to understand them and figure out what was true and what wasn't.

"What made you want to become musicians?" she asked.

Lucille laughed.

"Oh, very good," she said. "Subtle, really."

Thomas tutted lightly.

"Be nice. What else was she meant to try?"

A shrug and Thomas sighed.

"Our mother was very determined that we should learn instruments," he said. "She spent a lot of time and money trying to cultivate a love of classical music in us. Piano from the age of three, Spanish guitar, cello, flute..."

"I thought you were self-taught?" Edith asked.

He fixed her with a stare in the mirror.

"We're self-taught rock and roll stars," Lucille said. "If it was up to Mother, I'd be a concert pianist and Thomas would be a conductor. If it was up to Father, he'd be a banker probably."

"And what about you?"

A pause, bitterness practically radiating from her.

"I'd be a convenient womb in a loveless marriage to one of his friend's idiot sons. If he cared to think about my future at all."

Edith knew her eyes had widened, knew she must look shocked. The way they talked about their parents, so formally, so distant. Mother and Father, not Mum and Dad. It was strange. And such old-fashioned thinking too.

Thomas was squeezing Lucille's shoulder comfortingly, and her death grip on the wheel eased as she sighed.

"Trust me, Edith, I need to have a significantly elevated blood alcohol level to even start wanting to talk about our family. Suffice to say, we've spent a long time rebelling. I used to say we'd do what they wanted over their dead bodies, but even that hasn't happened."

Could she mean... Were their parents really dead then? Or were they just extremely estranged?

It reinforced to her just how lucky she'd been with her own parents. They might have both passed now, but they'd given her more love and encouragement in that time than some managed over fifty years. She felt oddly guilty about it.

Border control was visibly surprised by them showing up on a quiet day. Two glamorous Brits and their strange American friend, just popping over the invisible line to look at the waterfall, nothing to worry about officer.

"What's in the back?"

"Oh," Edith said. "It's my luggage. They just picked me up, we're going travelling. But since we're so close, we figured..."

He looked at her passport carefully, the blue cover looking strange next to the maroon-ish purple of the Sharpes' ones. Birthplace Buffalo, NY, that's probably what he was looking at.

"Work visas..."

"We're musicians," Lucille said. "We're playing a few little concerts and it's very important to have the correct paperwork."

From her seat behind, Edith could just see her smile, the way she was sitting up just a little more, her shoulders curved in slightly. Not flirting, not really, but something close to it.

"Have a nice visit."

The barrier raised for them to pass, Thomas passing Edith's passport back for her to put away as they drove up the road and pulled into the busy parking lot.

It was always busy, even so early in the season, even when it was still freezing. Edith kind of liked it, the way the spray would freeze and cover everything in a beautiful, sharp second skin of frost, spiky and glittering. And she liked the icicles that grew too, huge white spears.

"Do you know anything about the hydroelectrics?" Thomas asked.

"Um... A little. We did it as a project at school, but that was years ago."

"I'm sure there will be plenty of information about it provided," Lucille said, zipping up her parka. Dark green and a little battered, probably vintage. "Our tutors used to call him the little engineer. Always wanting to know how things work."

She opened the back of the bus and pulled out a holdall, handing Edith the Poloroid camera.

"You never know," she said, clanging the door shut and heading off towards the welcome centre.

It was surreal. Edith felt like she'd accidently gone on vacation with strangers and been charged with taking their photos. Not to mention that she wasn't quite sure how to use the camera in the first place. It felt strange to raise the viewfinder to her eye instead of looking at a digital screen for one thing as she took an experimental shot of the Sharpes' backs as they read the first information board, the icy blue curve of the falls just about visible behind them.

Clunk, whirr, a little white square. _Shake it like a Poloroid picture..._

Not very good. Over exposed, the figures like dark shadows against a white background with only the vaguest hint of something else there.

But the quality wasn't the point, the point was that the little picture was unique. There wasn't even a film to order more prints from, no negative. This was it. Of course, it would be scanned and copied and so on later, but it she tore it up now, there'd be no trace of it, not even ghosts of megabytes.

"Edith?"

They looked amused, Lucille waving the marker pen teasingly.

"You have to keep that one," Thomas said as she caught up with them. "The first one is special."

He let her lean on his back to write on it. _First - T + L @ Niagara Falls_

Lucille tilted her head to the side.

"That's interesting," she said. "Using that symbol. I don't think your typewriter even has it. But I like it. It's a sign of how even use of punctuation evolves over time."

"What was it before?"

"It was for accounting. Two items at a rate of $4 is $8, that kind of thing."

They paid her entry fee for going behind the fall, souvenir rain poncho and all. No amount of protesting convinced them otherwise.

"We haven't even paid you yet. Think of it as work expenses."

Despite how awe-inspiring the waterfall was, as always, Edith couldn't quite shake her faint feeling of unease during the couple of hours they spent doing the rounds of viewing platforms and museums.

"Are you being extra nice so that I write that you're nice in my first article?"

Lucille smiled at her, frowning slightly.

"Do you think everyone you meet has some kind of ulterior motive, Edith?"

"No! And I... Not _ulterior,_ just..."

"Oh, don't pay attention to her," Thomas said, glancing at his watch. "She's just playing with you. And we should be going or we'll be late for Finlay."

He drove, taking them back across the border and into the suburbs of an unfamiliar town. For all she was born and bred, Edith didn't go beyond the city limits... ever, really. She had no idea where they were. It could have been anywhere, really.

They pulled into an ordinary street, neat little square lawns, white wooden shutters.

"Look at this place," Lucille said. "It's every movie ever. Or it will be, when the leaves come in properly."

They stopped by a house like all the others, children's trikes on the driveway. Not going to be stolen. A safe neighborhood.

Edith watched as a young woman came to the door, a toddler on her hip. Surely they weren't intending to take a baby on tour?

"That must be the daughter. Charm offensive needed, Thomas. She thinks her mother has seen quite enough excitement for one lifetime without going off with us."

As if on cue, a suitcase appeared, an older woman right behind it, a look of determination on her face. Edith did not like the idea of arguing with her, but that was clearly what was happening. Something about bad ideas, blood pressure.

"Don't you go telling me off about blood pressure. Sitting around getting fed by you isn't gonna help me shift any weight. I need to be out there, Juney. I need excitement in my life. I'm not dead yet."

She hadn't slowed down, bypassing her daughter and grandson to hand Thomas her bags.

"Mrs Finlay," he was saying, practically bowing. "I would hate to think that we're in any way causing conflict here. And what a handsome fellow this is! Hello, young man."

Lucille chuckled as before too long, Thomas was holding the little boy, having his nose and eyebrows thoroughly explored by small hands. The mother was clearly not prepared to be moved, so the daughter dutifully embraced her, still evidently disagreeing but finding peace somehow.

And then she was in the bus in a flash, adjusting the seat, waving, demanding that Juney give her husband a hug from his mother-in-law, and with that they were pulling away.

"Edith, meet Mrs Deborah Finlay," Lucille said. "Finlay, this is Miss Edith Cushing, our writer."

"Nice to meet you."

"You too. Very excited to be part of this little trip. Of course, June thinks I'm going to combust or something, but I keep telling her, if you've been shot like I have, you take every opportunity that life throws your way."

Edith head whirled a little, trying to make sense of what she'd just heard.

"Sh-shot?"

They all laughed, all three of them. Lucille leaned close, conspiratorily.

"Mrs Finlay now, but formerly Detective Finlay," she said. "Injured in the line of duty."

"Get to know me better, maybe I'll show you the scar," Finlay said. "Now, where's this trailer I've heard so much about? Let's get this show on the road!"

She cackled, the lines around her eyes clearly showing where they'd come from.

"I've always wanted to say that."


	5. Familiar Names

Geography really wasn't their strong point... There was no other explanation of the ridiculous way they went back to Buffalo to pick up a rickety trailer from a paid parking lot. Apparently all the instruments were in there. Guitars, keyboards, synths, probably dozens overall. Worth an absolute fortune.

They had an early dinner in a tiny local burger restaurant, all chequered tablecloths and formica counter top.

"This isn't quite right," Lucille said, turning over the laminated menu, faded and stained with the ghosts of generations of spilled drinks.

"How do you mean?" Edith asked.

"Not nearly enough clichés. The waitresses ought to be on rollerskates for one thing. No red stools at the counter, no pot of coffee for top ups."

"I promise," Thomas said. "At some point, we will stop at a diner and you can experience being topped up by a skating woman."

"I want her to have one of those names too. Like Marge. Or Ginger. Lorraine. Julia."

Finlay laughed. She seemed to do that a lot.

"And milkshakes served in the bottle?" she asked. "I know what you mean. Trust me, you young folk always manage to find the good stuff in the past. The fashion, the music, whatever. But I was there and, my God, I would not go back if you paid me."

It was strange. The Sharpes had a kind of magnetism about them, but Finlay radiated warmth. Edith had barely known her grandparents, but Finlay had that kind of grandma air about her, like she'd been waiting all her life to offer little tidbits of wisdom.

"It's not an era or a nostalgia," Lucille said after the disruption of food arriving was over. "It's a faintly unreal sense of the country. That's what's interesting. Americana, that's what we're after. All-night diners, mom and pop businesses, eagles all over everything."

"You don't have family businesses in England?"

"Of course we do," Thomas said. "But we have a somewhat filtered image of the States. It mostly comes from films and television. Every bar is the bar from 'Cheers', every school is the school from 'The Breakfast Club', that kind of thing. Everyone in New Orleans loves jazz, everyone in California is blonde and tanned, everyone in the South sits on their porch swing drinking sweet tea, everyone in Maine is in a Stephen King story. Preconceptions and fixed ideas from popular culture. In much the same way the rest of the world takes 'Downton Abbey' as some kind of documentary."

"Though of course, we are genuine nobility," Lucille added.

Edith blinked at them. Was that a joke? Was she walking into it if she believed it?

"Are you serious?" she asked.

"Extremely minor nobility," Thomas said, picking up his burger bun to look suspiciously at the drooping lettuce beneath. "Barely worth mentioning. No one knows what a hereditary baronetcy is."

Well, he was correct on that front and it just made Edith more unsure. That might not even be a real thing. It might be more attempts to fool her.

"She doesn't believe us," Lucille said, tasting a drop ketchup from the tip of her finger before deeming it acceptable.

"I don't know... Hereditary means you got it from your parents, but..."

She glanced at Finlay. Was it alright to talk about such matters in front of her? Where was the line?

"But we hated our parents," Lucille finished for her. "So why maintain any part of the family line? For a start, a baronetcy is not like monarchy. It doesn't just transfer. You have to go to the registrar with birth certificate, marriage certificate of parents, death certificate of the previous baronet, proof that you are the eldest surviving male heir of the first baronet..."

"Our seven times great grandfather," Thomas said.

"All that to be Sir Thomas. So much effort. But then again, just thinking of how furious Father would be, the proud legacy on the shoulders of a libertine showman."

"Less of the libertine, please. You'll scare her off."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Don't worry, Edith, my brother is three steps from monkhood and wouldn't dream of trespassing against your modesty."

Edith was fairly sure her face remained pink though the rest of the meal, no matter that Finlay told her to pay no mind to such teasing. It was difficult though. She felt like a half-plucked chicken sitting between two peacocks.

They slipped back across into Canada without a problem, different border guard, planning to hit Detroit in the evening for supper and bed.

Lucille seemed to be keen to go shopping during the day before the show and Edith got the distinct feeling she was going to be taken along whether she liked it or not. She wasn't exactly keen on clothes stores at the best of times, let alone going with someone so glamorous. Then again, maybe by herself Lucille would be different to how she was around her brother.

They seemed to find everything they saw strangely amusing. Especially going past towns called London and Chatham, evidence of the British colonialists. Edith wasn't entirely sure she got it. There was an edge of irony to it, a faint hint of superiority.

By the time they crept back across the border and into Detroit, it was getting dark.

"Motor City," Finlay said. "What a place."

What a place they were staying at, for a start. A real old-fashioned motel, flickering lights and all. And only three bedrooms booked.

"It's cheaper this way," Thomas said when Edith questioned it. "Besides, we're used to sharing dressing rooms with no privacy. Don't worry about us."

A tiny room, really just a square with a bed in it and a cupboard that held a bathroom of sorts. Toilet, sink, shower, all crammed in together. Still, it was clean. Comfortable enough.

The travelling and second-guessing had tired her out a little, rubbing her eyes while chewing gas station sandwiches, but Edith felt she ought to call Alan before going to sleep, let him know she hadn't been murdered.

"Yet," he said, after she'd carefully followed the 'calling outbound' procedure on the motel phone. "They're biding their time."

"They're not. They're nice. Well, nice-ish. And we have a driver now. A witness."

"The driver's in on it."

She laughed, yawning a little with it. At least he seemed to be more relaxed about the whole thing now.

"I'll be out late tomorrow night at the first show," she said. "But I'll try to tell you all about it the day after."

"Just call regularly. That's all I ask. And be careful. Seriously."

"I will. I'm practically asleep here, sorry. You on lates still?"

"Yeah. I should be going actually. Sleep tight. Don't let the rock stars bite."

He was ridiculous sometimes.


	6. Panic in Detroit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been to any if the places in this fic, FYI. My apologies for any glaring mistakes.

"Oh, you need to try this on."

Edith tried her best to stifle a yawn. She felt like Lucille had woken her at the crack of dawn, graciously letting her quickly wash her hair before reappearing with a greasy breakfast bought from a van - and Edith was really starting to wonder how she kept her figure so well if they were going to live on this stuff for the next few months - and now they were in a fairly deserted store that sold...

Well, if you were into this sort of thing and had the look for it, it was very nice. But it took the right kind of person to get away with tailored leather trenchcoats and so many chains and artful spiders and bats.

She turned to look at what Lucille had found and instantly scoffed. Red PVC corset, really?

"I... I don't think..."

"Just for the fun of it. Not to buy. Unless you look really good in it."

Edith's cheeks were probably in danger of becoming the same shade as the plastic as Lucille pressed it into her hands and continued flicking through everything from camisoles to full ball gowns.

It wasn't the worst changing room she'd ever been in. The lighting was soft and yellowy, not the harsh fluorescence of some stores that seemed determined to make everything as unflattering as possible and point out every imperfection. All the same, Edith was incredibly aware of her body as she tugged off her t-shirt, every freckle, every stretch mark from her teenage years, the strange gray-peach of an ancient bra making her skin look dull. Like she needed to exfoliate so hard that it would come off, shed it like a snake.

The corset went on surprisingly easily, wrapping around her back and hooking together with steel fastenings. She only started to have trouble halfway up, the sheer lack of space forcing her breasts upwards into an unusual angle. It was fine once it was on, but she already felt awkward. It had completely changed her shape, lifting and squeezing, forcing her body to yield to its plastic boning.

"Can I see?"

"Um..."

Lucille leant round the curtain and grinned, Edith wrapping her arms around herself defensively.

"No, come on, let me look."

Trying not to wince or blush too much, Edith turned back to the mirror and was sure she could physically feel Lucille's eyes roam over her. She possibly had never been less comfortable in her entire life. A mongrel being examined by a sleek pedigree. Rust next to chrome.

"You look good like this. Really. But I know, it is a little over the top. And $90 dollars is steep. But still. You look sexy."

Edith met her own stunned gaze in the reflection.

"I, uh... I don't..."

"Sorry," Lucille said, laughing as though it was nothing. "Probably counts as sexual harassment since I'm your employer. I'll let you change back into yourself."

She vanished, leaving Edith to extract herself from the corset and pin it back onto its little hanger. She tried to compose herself, taking the time to pull her hair back, maybe just a little too tight. This was a test, a game Lucille was playing with her. Seeing what she'd do, teasing her, seeing how far she could go.

Hopefully she'd stop it after they got properly used to one another.

She caught up as Lucille was paying for a few items, noticing the nervous young man hovering nearby.

"Is that... Is that Lucille Sharpe?" he hissed.

Edith frowned.

"Yes?"

"Oh, my God... Oh, my God..."

Of course. Crimson Peak were famous in exactly this kind of scene. He was probably going to the concert later. He ran his hands through tight curls, nervous.

"Do you know her? Does she mind people asking for selfies?"

"I... I work for her, but I don't know..."

He'd already approached, the very second she turned with her bags, babbling, telling Lucille he was a huge fan, how he loved the music, how it would make his life if she would deign to take a picture with him.

"Put your phone away," she said. "You'll have it on my terms."

Edith found herself taking a Polaroid of them together, worried about the lack of light in the store and what it would do to the exposure, but getting an atmospheric picture out of it. Lucille seemed to glow, the fan standing with a rictus grin, awkward and stiff.

"Collect the set," Lucille said as she signed it. "I believe my brother is exploring the Henry Ford museum. If you're lucky, you might find him."

As they left, Edith looked back to see him trying to take a picture of the photo with his phone. It would be online in seconds, looking like it had been artificially filtered into submission.

"Do you mind that kind of thing?" Edith asked, remembering the blank paper back with the typewriter. Anything she could jot down would be helpful.

"Honestly, it doesn't happen often enough to bother me. Not in person. Not out in the street like this. Maybe if they interrupted me one too may times I'd snap at them, but I find it amusing more than anything else. I don't really understand it. Smiling together in pictures, like we're friends."

"They want to document having met you."

"Yes. It's just funny that he might frame that picture and have it on the wall in his house. They remember these moments so clearly and yet, apart from a few, they mean absolutely nothing to me."

Edith stumbled over a loose paving stone, only just staying upright.

"But... I mean, they're the ones who buy your music..."

Lucille laughed, high and loud.

"Not the fans, the pictures. I couldn't tell you where I've had my picture taken or who with. It just makes me think about how often something might mean the world to me, but be hardly remembered by someone else. You know, like how you remember kids being mean at school, even though it's been twenty years and it couldn't matter less, but you still remember and ache a little."

Edith couldn't imagine that anyone had ever been mean to Lucille. She couldn't imagine that anyone would dare. But she knew the feeling well. The strange things remembered and focussed on at 2am, the classmates whose names and faces had long ago faded but whose thoughtless words seemed burned into her memory forever.

They took a (highly expensive due to the distance) cab to the Henry Ford - or the Edison Institute as it was more properly known - planning to meet Thomas for lunch. If they could ever find him.

The museum was enormous, a huge entrance like a town hall and an entire park of space in behind it for exhibits. Then again, it was supposed to have dozens of important vehicles.

Which, in turn, meant Thomas could be anywhere.

"Should have known," Lucille said as they headed for the Michigan Café, the only eatery that didn't require a museum ticket. "Say one o'clock but then put him in a building full of machines and he vanishes."

"Should we wait?" Edith asked.

"Not if we want to eat before it closes at four."

She ordered for him with a casual assumption that she knew what he would want. Though to be fair, when Thomas did arrive, twenty minutes late, he barely seemed to notice what he was eating, bright and cheerful with excitement. He looked softer somehow, younger almost. Renewed and refreshed.

"They have everything here! Prototype helicopters, all kinds of experimental engines, the car Kennedy was shot in, Rosa Parks' bus... It's amazing."

Lucille tilted her head to the side, carefully spearing a piece of celery on one tine of her fork.

"You know as well as I do that there were others before Rosa Parks," she said. "Where's Claudette Colvin's bus for one? Practically written out of history for being too young, too loud, too teenaged girl..."

"The ends can justify the means, as you are well aware. The cause needed the right kind of unimpeachable, respectable, strong adult to rally around. They won, that's what matters. Besides, you've read about her. The information is out there for anyone to learn from. That's hardly being written out."

Edith sipped her water, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. She couldn't quite put her finger on what was upsetting her. Something about the tone of their voices. As though they were interested in winning their little rhetorical battle rather than the history or the fact that it was still in living memory and vitally important.

Maybe it was the distance they implied. Like they were examining something on a distant moon hundreds of years ago instead of something relatively recent and tangible. They were observing the facts, not engaging with them.

She wished she hadn't had that thought. Feedback from an early assignment flashed through her mind. _Well written, but fails to engage either reader or subject. Not so much dry as shallow. Work on crafting a profile, not on merely reporting words._

Was taking an impromptu journey engaging with her subjects enough? Or had she now swung too far the other way?

"Where's Finlay today?" she asked, trying to wriggle out of the awkward feeling.

"We'll join her after we eat," Thomas said. "As I understand, she's been on a Motown themed walking tour and invites us to join her to visit Hitsville USA before we prepare for the show. And I trust you had a good time shopping this morning?"

"I, um... Yeah."

"You don't sound very sure."

He seemed genuinely concerned and Edith tried her best to force a smile.

"I made her uncomfortable," Lucille said. "Tried to push an outfit on her that she found distasteful."

"No," Edith said. "No, it was fine. Just... It just didn't suit me, that's all. I wasn't uncomfortable. I was fine."

She was protesting too much, she knew it, but Lucille was making her sound like a child, raising her eyebrows at her insistence like she didn't believe a word of it and leaning over to rummage in her bag.

"I got some nice things though."

She held up a camisole in deep red in front of her chest, the deep neckline somewhat disguised by lace that seemed to be attached to a kind of choker collar. It was a strange combination. The silky material of the bulk of it looked like lingerie, but the modest chest covering was almost Victorian to Edith's eye.

And it would suit Lucille. It would stand out so clearly against her skin, make her neck seem all the longer. Would she wear it for one of the shows? Edith could see it in a Polaroid already, surrounded by smoke on the stage.

"I'll model it for you later," Lucille said, getting a half smile from Thomas. Edith was a little surprised that he would care much for clothes, but then again so much of their identity was caught up in appearances and look. Maybe they always critiqued each other's outfits.

The show seemed far too close and yet not nearly close enough when Finlay arrived to collect them, positively giddy to have a chance to see relics from some of her favourite artists.

The first show Edith would ever write a report on, and it was due as soon as she could get it done and sent off.

Somehow, she wasn't sure she'd get much sleep that night.


	7. Scrivening

Edith sat in her little motel bed, pen in hand, and crossed out her opening sentence for the fifth time.

Her ears were still ringing from being so close to the instruments, standing in the wings with the camera, trying to get good shots. She'd spread them all out on the second pillow, trying to decide if any were useable.

There was one of the crowd she liked. Just the front row visible, singing along, mouths all open in the same shape, reaching for the stage, some with phones to try to capture something, others with their bare hands. And there was one of Thomas almost silhouetted, his hair wild and slightly damp, the slightest hint of shining eyes in the shadow.

But a good shot of Lucille... That was proving more elusive. Which was very strange, because Edith had been hardly able to keep her eyes off her. It was almost hard to believe that the creature she had seen on stage, aloof yet giving, accessible yet strangely Other, was the very same person who spoke so bluntly and was untroubled by nuance and social norms. She was a little prickly, a little guarded in person, at least about herself. Edith found herself wondering which of the was the 'real' Lucille. Maybe neither. Maybe both.

Eventually she chose one of her playing bass guitar, the curves of the instrument complementing her slender frame, her wrist looped delicately around the neck like a coiled snake.

She thought of how long she'd watched those elegant fingers moving up and down the frets, soft pads pressing on the strings, holding them down to draw the notes out, and swallowed hard.

What was wrong with her? This was so inappropriate. And it made no sense. Yes, Lucille was beautiful and skilful and Edith had to admit that she had always enjoyed watching people who were good at what they did - she liked watching artists drawing for example and dancers and science demonstrations - but there was absolutely no reason to be blushing over it.

She'd had crushes before, on boys and then on men. It was possible to find someone objectively attractive without it being anything deeper. Lauren Bacall was beautiful, for example. Women in Pre-Raphaelite paintings. Kim Min-hee. Lea Salonga.

They'd spent half the afternoon looking at pictures of beautiful, talented women at Hitsville USA. Gladys Knight. Diana Ross. Mary Wells.

She was quite capable of appreciating attractive women without getting the giggles, thank you.

It had to be the elusiveness drawing her in. She was trying to see who Lucille really was and as such she was getting a little too single-minded, too focussed, and mistaking that for interest. Maybe if she spent a little more time with Thomas by himself she'd get more perspective.

Or maybe she'd develop an inappropriate fascination with him as well.

 _Detroit greeted Crimson Peak cautiously but soon opened its arms wide to them,_ she wrote. _This city of innovation and experimentation was ideal for their strange blend of classical and classic influences. Attendees did not imagine the insertion of more than one borrowed Motown phrase, though the sweet tones of 'Baby Love' were perhaps a little too ironic when slipped into the middle eight of 'Progestin', the Sharpes' cheerfully devastating ode to emergency contraceptives._

Was that harsh? The song made her uncomfortable enough with its driving, pulsing beat that seemed to echo in her ears and the way the strong note never fell where she expected it to. And then when she'd listened to the lyrics and realised what it was about...

She couldn't help wondering if it was fictional or not. And if it wasn't, then which of them had written it. Was that Lucille waiting breathless in a pharmacy and weeping through the cramps and ultimately relieved that it had worked or had Thomas had an accident with a girlfriend and then written a song from her perspective? And if there was a woman out there who inspired it, what did she think about her experience being used like that?

And did the Sharpes even care?

Music was their passion but also their product. If someone provided the inspiration for a song, Edith couldn't quite imagine them asking permission or even mentioning it.

Maybe they'd write about her one day.

She wasn't sure if she'd like that or not.

The little room wasn't helping her creative process. She'd been in a smoky environment all night, inhaled far more dry ice than she was used to. Air, that's what she needed. Fresh air.

The concrete floor of the motel walkway was chill beneath her feet despite her socks, but the cold was just what she wanted to soothe her throat. A few good gulps and she could get back to it.

She was leaning against the railing, watching the headlamps of cars moving on and off the freeway like glowing ants, when she realised the wasn't alone.

"You should be in bed, young lady," Finlay said, looking right at home in a bulky robe and thick woolly slippers. "You've had a long day."

Edith made an attempt at a smile.

"I'm supposed to write about the show," she said. "But I can't quite find the words."

Finlay joined her in her leaning, a cup of what looked like hot chocolate steaming gently into the night.

"Seems to me lots of journalists will be writing up the shows," she said thoughtfully. "But none of them will be able to write what you can. You're the one with the inside scoop. You're the one getting to know them personally."

The little laugh was out before Edith could stop it.

"I think I could spend years with them and not get to know them."

"Well, early days yet. They're strange folks but it takes all sorts to make the world go round. Just got to get used to each other. Between you and I, it feels like they haven't met too many people, not properly. Very self-reliant pair. Which is good but, well, might take a little while to get behind the armour. But that's what people want to know. What are they like, really? What don't you see in public? What goes on after the lights go down and all the wires are packed away? Keep trying. You'll get there. But a sleepy writer is no good to anyone. You need your rest."

She was right, Edith supposed. And she already had some insights. At least, she thought they were insights.

Her own words about lies from her audition article came back to her as she wished Finlay goodnight and promised to go to bed right away.

The Sharpes lied. They did. So her insights might not be insights at all. She was the lead in a detective novel and she had to interpret the clues as best she could.

Right. New page in the notebook. That other paragraph could come later, after she'd set the scene.

_I do not know if the things I am going to write over the next few months will be true. My own observations will be as accurate as I can make them. However, when it comes to the enigmatic Sharpe siblings, I don't believe anything can be treated as absolute truth._

Especially anything Lucille says, she added internally.

_Along with their tour, they are here to explore both notable and common parts of the cities they pause at. Tour-ism is the order of the day._

"Order of the day"? Cliched, fix that in the edit. And the section about the Detroit show could go here.

_Some songs are easy to interpret. Lyrical storytelling seems to come easy to them. As for the more abstract or the instrumentals, asking the meaning would be unlikely to be met with a simple answer. Or rather it would, but that answer is unlikely to be all there is to it._

_They change their answers as readily as they change keys._

_The next tour stop is Columbus, Ohio, and I believe we will have travelled through Cincinnati and played in Louisville, Indiapolis, Chicago and perhaps even Milwaukee by the time I send another article._

So many places. And so many other little towns circled on the map, ideas for places to stop.

And she was already tired.

She hauled her things down to the bus the next morning, notebook tucked into her belt, and had to type up her article on the road. Even with Finlay driving as carefully as she could down the lakeside, there were bumps in the road that made the letters dance in front of her eyes, having to close them tight to avoid feeling sick. The Sharpes were carefully giving her space though, not trying to look at her notes. Complete creative freedom.

Singing songs from Hairspray as they drove through North Baltimore didn't help her stress levels though.

"That's Baltimore, Maryland," Edith found herself saying, unusually harshly, fingers juddering against the typewriter keys. "Whole different state."

She didn't miss the look Lucille gave her, surprised and maybe a little intrigued. Edith wondered if she was annoyed at being corrected or if she was glad that Edith wasn't afraid to challenge them.

Maybe it had been yet another test. She carefully didn't look up again and willed her cheeks not to go pink.

They drove into a town called Findlay where the Sharpes insisted on stopping and taking a picture by the sign. They had to be in odd sight, a beat-up bus pulled over, a woman grinning as a Polaroid whirred. A scene from the wrong decade.

Edith wrote on the back of the pictures which she thought could go to magazines and which were for the book as extra content. _Finlay @ Findlay,_ one of the Sharpes at Niagara Falls, a picture from sound check showing wires and clutter everywhere.

She was putting them all in an envelope when they were waiting for their for lunch to arrive in a town called Delaware - the Sharpes saying something about not even Newcastle-upon-Tyne and Newcastle-under-Lyme being this confusing - and looking around for a post office when Thomas frowned at her.

"You don't have to show me," he said. "But have you put in any pictures of yourself?"

She hadn't even thought about that.

"No. I haven't taken any."

"Well, that won't do. We'll have to fix that."

He wouldn't let her seal it, squeezing Lucille's shoulder at he stood up and beckoned Edith to follow.

She stopped dead when he approached the single bathroom at the back of the cafe.

"In... In there?" she stammered.

"How do you think they took selfies on these things? We're just going to use the mirror."

And thankfully it was on a wall perpendicular to the cubicle and not opposite it. Edith stared at her own reflection, how short she looked with Thomas looming behind her, smiling.

"If you line up the shot and then bring the camera down to chest height, so everyone can see your beautiful face..."

She blushed hotly, almost cringing in embarrassment. It was just an expression, for goodness sake, he didn't mean anything by it...

"It's alright," he said softly and, God, she could feel his presence right there, not touching her but close enough to her back that she could feel his body heat. "Just relax, it's OK."

She lined up the shot and brought her arms down, keeping her gaze steady, not looking at him even in the mirror, keeping her face carefully blank as she pressed the button.

"I look like a mannequin," she said, trying to break the tension once the picture had resolved into focus.

Or a puppet he was controlling, looking at her, eyes on her face in the reflection, arms folded but slouching to the side with effortless cool.

"You remind me more of those porcelain masks. You know the ones? Smooth. Painted so delicately."

Her laugh was too shrill as they came back out, getting frowns from a few other patrons.

"That sounds more like Lucille than me."

"Mm. But I know that she keeps under her mask. I'm not so sure about you."

Edith was still wondering exactly what he meant by that as Lucille carefully wrote _T and Edith in Not That Delaware_ along the bottom, slipped it into the envelope and smiled as she sealed it up.


	8. Dolls

"I have the article right here in front of me. And you're one of the cover headlines so that's good."

Edith swapped the motel phone to her other ear. She had invested in anti-bacterial wipes to clean them and the TV remotes after Lucille had told her about a news report she'd read about hygiene in such places in more graphic detail than was necessary, but now she was regretting sitting on the floor. It might have been vacuumed, but perhaps not thoroughly enough.

"How is it?" she asked.

Alan made a moderately impressed noise.

"Well, it sounds like you. Either they're keeping their promise and not editing it, or whoever's doing it is really good at imitating your style. You sound kinda... I don't know. Critical. But it's good. It's fine."

Edith frowned at the wallpaper border, terracotta orange and almost crusty-looking. Maybe it had matched the faded curtains once upon a time.

"That doesn't _sound_ good," she said.

"No, it is. It is. And you look good in the picture too. You're, uh... You're getting along with Thomas then?"

Ugh...

Ever since that day with the camera, she'd felt hyper-aware of his presence. And she'd noticed how strangely quietly he moved. It wasn't like he deliberately snuck up on her. Half the time he didn't even seem to notice. She'd startle and he wouldn't even react. Or he would by smiling and laying his hands on her shoulders and asking how she was, as if she was completely ridiculous.

She'd started glancing at him too often. And he was never looking when she did. She might as well not exist half the time.

It was stupid. He'd made her deeply uncomfortable one time, that shouldn't translate into attraction. Or not... Not uncomfortable as such. He'd made her realise that she liked having his attention. When he spoke to her, she felt like he really listened. And even though she felt incredibly unintelligent next to him - next to both of them - on the rare occasions she was able to add something to a discussion, he seemed genuinely interested.

She had something akin to a crush and it was awful.

"Yeah, he's fine," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I tend to spend more time with Lucille and Finlay though."

"OK. Just be careful around him."

"Why?"

Maybe he had sounded a little defensive. But she didn't need to be looked after. She was fine. Alright, so she'd forgotten what day of the week it was and she was starting to lose track of their exact location on the map - somewhere near Cinncinnati she thought - because of all the stops and the way they were weaving around to see dozens of small towns and hamlets, but she was fine.

"Well, you know. He's a rock star. They have... reputations."

"Reputations? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know what it means."

She scoffed.

"Well, he's not like that. We're friends, that's all."

Maybe not even that... She honestly wasn't sure if their relationship went beyond professional.

"I don't want you to get hurt, that's all."

"I can look after myself."

Did he not hear it? How patronising and imposing he was being? Thomas had no interest in her. At all. And he'd made that abundantly clear.

"Look, I just... I'm sorry, of course you can, I'm just asking you to be careful. They're manipulative people."

"What makes you say that?"

There was a heavy pause.

"Did you sign any kind of non-disclosure agreement, Edith?"

That was a very precise question all of a sudden. Had she? Surely not. After all, they'd given her full creative freedom, they weren't checking her work and she was allowed to write whatever she wanted.

"I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"Just I was doing some research on them and I came across this girl who says she worked in their recording studio and..."

There was a crash from through the wall. Like a glass smashing. Edith flinched forwards, heart hammering. Weren't Thomas and Lucille in that room?

"I think I should go check on something," she said.

"No, Edith, this is important. She said she couldn't talk about it for legal reasons but that she was praying for you and that anyone who knew you should tell you not to trust the Sharpes under any circumstances."

"Me? Me personally?"

"It was in response to the article. I'm trying to contact her, but she hasn't got back to me yet..."

A door slamming. Stamping footsteps. Something was definitely wrong.

"Alan, seriously, I have to go. It's probably nothing. She'll just be some bitter groupie or something. It's nothing. I'll call you tomorrow."

She didn't even bother waiting for him to say goodbye before hanging up and rushing for the door, grabbing her room key on her way out.

She knocked without giving herself time to be worried about it.

"Did you forget your fucking key?" she heard Lucille snap before opening the door, her scowl instantly softening. There was a faint fuzziness about her eyes, liner running a little. She'd been crying.

"I..." Edith started. "I thought I heard something. Are you alright?"

Lucille sighed, leaning against the door jamb.

"Of course. I dropped one of the tumblers and Thomas is pissed that we'll have to pay for it, that's all. Come in and sit with me."

Edith wasn't really given a choice, just led inside by the hand, having to sit in the only chair as Lucille flopped back on the double bed.

Yeah... "Dropped a glass." Never mind the obvious splash mark on the wall. No, that had been thrown. It had clearly been thrown.

Her stomach rolled. Had Thomas done that?

Maybe Alan really was on to something. Maybe he wasn't as nice as he seemed.

"I feel like going dancing," Lucille said. "We should go dancing, you and me. Tonight."

"Oh, I... I'm not sure I really have an outfit suitable for that."

"You can borrow something of mine."

There was a sudden rattling in the lock, and Edith couldn't help but go tense. Surely Thomas wouldn't do anything in front of her?

He was holding a dustpan and brush, freezing the moment he entered the room, faint guilt passing his face before settling into a gentle, concerned frown.

"I hope we didn't disturb you, Edith. Dropped a glass... Such butterfingers."

"We're going dancing just the two of us," Lucille announced, digging through clothes on the floor. "Is that alright?"

The tension was incredibly high, thick and choking, as Thomas crouched to sweep up the broken glass.

"Do whatever you like," he said, shrugging.

"Great!" and Lucille's voice was far too bright now. "Don't wait up."

Edith looked back as she was dragged out of the room, catching Thomas's clenched jaw and fists. Lucille obviously wanted to be away from him.

"Do you have scissors?"

She was trying to unlock her door, unsure what that meant.

"Only nail ones."

"Oh, that's fine. I just need to cut some stuff."

For a moment, Edith was scared to get them. What exactly was "stuff"? She wasn't going to hurt herself or anything, was she? And, of course, they were right at the bottom of her washbag, taking forever to find...

When she turned, Lucille had taken off her blouse and was apparently trying to pick between two t-shirts, lips pursed critically. Edith's eyes hit her breasts first, black mesh bra barely actually concealing them, and then down her stomach, the slight swell of her hips hitting her jeans, trying desperately to look away.

She looked so normal. Yes, slim and beautiful, but she had the pale lines of stretchmarks, freckles, dark hair under her navel. Real flesh. A real body.

There were even scars...

Edith turned away, mortified, stammering out an apology.

"Oh, come on, Edith. I doubt I have anything you haven't seen before. Here, try this on."

She caught the pink shirt Lucille threw at her, facing the wall as she hurriedly pulled it on. It was far too big, swamping her.

Arms wrapped around her, circled her waist, a belt scooping the fabric in. Lucille moved her by her shoulder, frowning lightly as she started cutting around the neckline.

"Hold your hair up," she murmured, very close to Edith's face. "I'd hate to catch it by mistake."

A deep V-cut revealed more cleavage than Edith was usually comfortable with, the sleeves hacked off, the shirt turned into more of a voluminous mini dress.

"Lose the jeans," Lucille said.

No, no, it would barely cover _anything..._

"I haven't shaved in days," she said truthfully. "I'd... I'd rather not."

Lucille tutted and shrugged, fluffing out Edith's hair into waves.

"OK. Let's do your makeup."

Edith wasn't particularly good at staying still when someone was coming at her with pointed things, but she did her best. Heavy shadow, contouring, the kind of thing she never did for herself. She wasn't sure it really suited her, but then Lucille was smiling at her and she seemed so much happier and Edith was so glad just to be there with her as they went down to reception to call for a cab.

"Take us somewhere with music," was all she said to the driver, so free and spontaneous and everything Edith wanted to be but was afraid of.

Naturally enough, they ended up in a cheap club, complete with laser lights and sticky floors.

"This is exactly what I need," Lucille said, heading for the bar, pouring herself into one of the stools and ordering two cosmopolitans.

They didn't serve those. Edith suddenly found herself with a shot in her hand and then burning in her throat.

"Two more," Lucille said.

"Bad night, huh?" a man said, tilting his beer in their direction.

"Want to make it better for me?"

He laughed nervously. He was at least ten years older then her, not in the best shape, and clearly hadn't been expecting something like that.

"You're kidding?"

Another shot. Edith coughed heavily, Lucille rubbing her back and then draping her arm around her.

"Sorry," she said. "Happily taken."

With that, she led Edith to the dancefloor, in amongst sweating bodies, elbowing anyone who got in her way. It was easy for her. She was tall, she could see. Edith felt like an ugly duckling in her wake.

"Why did you say that?" she yelled over the music, Lucille having to lean down to hear her.

"I thought it would be funny to see his face. Come on, dance with me."

She tried. She tried so hard. But it was difficult to get into the moment. Yes, she had rhythm, maybe even something like grace, but... But nothing in comparison to how Lucille could let the music flow through her. So loose but so controlled, every motion, every sway of her hips and movement of her head so perfect. Pushing anyone who tried to dance with her away gently bit firmly. She was a swan indeed and if you weren't careful, she might break your arm.

She moved sinuously, smiling, beckoning, teasing just like she did on stage.

A performance. A performance just for her. What was she hiding behind that smile?

More shots. More dancing. And then suddenly Edith was alone. Lucille?

Lucille?

The alcohol had hit her gradually, moving her from tipsy to drunk, heat in her cheeks, images becoming more separated from one another, music pounding in her brain.

Someone was grinding against her from behind, touching her... Uh, no, no, stop... Please stop.

She tried pulling away, but hands tightened on her hips, pulling her back...

Lucille loomed out of the press of bodies, plucking the wandering hands from her body, growling something and pulling her away, back towards the bar, big glass of iced water in her hands and freezing its way down into her stomach.

"I think your girlfriend needs to go home," the barman said pointedly. "She looks beat."

There was a horrible taste at the back of Edith's mouth, not enough air in her lungs and she couldn't even figure put what was wrong with that sentence. Her head lolled against the taxi window, vibrating and buzzing.

Stairs were hard. She needed help. Lucille had her arm around her waist, easing her up to her room, rummaging in her purse for the key.

Oh, Thomas was going to be so _angry..._

She didn't remember going to bed, just that she felt thoroughly awful by the time she realised that pounding sound wasn't in her head and it was morning and therefore that was the door and...

And Lucille was fast asleep in bed next to her.

She stumbled to her feet in a daze, finding Thomas was the one knocking, unsurprisingly. His eyes flicked down her body and she was suddenly aware that she was only wearing the shirt Lucille had cut onto her the night before and it didn't cover much. It was only for a moment before he looked away.

"Is she here?" he asked quietly.

"Uh... Uh, yeah. Yeah, she is. Come in."

Was this wise? She wasn't sure.

She'd just have to hope.

"Lucille?"

She groaned, flopping onto her back.

"Edith," she croaked. "How about you take a shower? I think my brother and I need to talk in private."

Good idea. But she couldn't quite resist pressing her ear to the door in an effort to catch a little of what they were saying. Just in case.

Quite what she intended to do if she heard anything worrying, she wasn't sure.

"...nothing," Lucille was saying. "Some dive, barely even a club. Full of kids and gross old men. I just needed to get some frustration out. I'm... I'm sorry."

Why was she the one apologizing? He ought to be doing that...

"Did you sleep with her?"

Edith's heart throbbed painfully, eyes wide. She hadn't even thought about... that when they woke up together. She couldn't remember anything after arriving back. Surely they hadn't? Oh, God, she felt sick.

She still had her underwear on. They hadn't. She was almost certain they hadn't.

"Of course not," Lucille scoffed. "She was drunk. Blackout drunk. Even if I'd given her the fuck of her life, she wouldn't have remembered it. We just slept in the same bed. It was nothing. Back off."

"You back off. You're the one... What?"

There was a sudden knock on the door, right under her ear.

"Are you OK, Edith?" Lucille called. "I don't hear the water running."

She leapt away from the door. Caught listening...

"I'm fine," she said, yanking the shirt off. "Couldn't quite figure out how the shower worked, but I think I've got it now."

Standing under the weak stream of warm water soothed her aches a little. The outer ones anyway.

She wished it was so easy to rinse out the creeping sense of unease from her stomach.

She definitely didn't have all the pieces of this puzzle yet. Something was wrong here.

And she didn't know what.


	9. Truce in Chicago

"This city is called Gary," Lucille laughed. Quite why it was so funny, Edith wasn't sure.

She was trying to at least start the article she'd be filing from Chicago, trying to gather her notes from shows in Louisville and Indianapolis, but her brain kept shutting down. She'd been spending too long listening to their lyrics, really listening, hearing references to soft skin and long hair and, well, OK, they weren't necessarily written by Lucille and even if they were, they didn't necessarily refer to women, but...

But what if they did? And what if Lucille liked... liked her?

She wasn't sure how she felt about that as a possibility. Flattered, maybe. Shocked. Scared. And she didn't know why that last one. It was just Lucille. It was just attraction. Nothing had to happen.

She hadn't called Alan since that night they went dancing and he was probably worried sick. And then there was that girl he'd spoken to. What if she wasn't a jealous Thomas groupie but a jealous Lucille groupie?

"Sure, Gary, Indiana," Thomas said from the front seat. "They filmed _Nightmare on Elm Street_ here."

"No, they didn't. It was Los Angeles. I'm certain of it."

"Not the original, the remake."

Lucille scoffed and huffed, arms folded.

"Lucille hates remakes," Thomas chuckled, doodling in the corners of his map.

"Oh, me too," Finlay said. "I don't mind a new version of an old book from time to time, but if the original said what it needed to, there's no need to mess with it. Though I never did like those scary movies much anyway. I saw enough murder in my work life without making up pretend ones too."

"How long did you work homicide?" Edith found herself asking.

"I didn't. But, well, every so often a robbery goes wrong or you get called to a domestic and find... You know, I don't really like to talk about it so much actually."

"I'm sorry."

A smile in the rear-view mirror. Edith liked Finlay's eyes, their dark brown colour so warm and with such depth. Rich. They had an alertness to them, but no sharpness at all. You could tell she would see right through any attempt to lie to her, but that she would be kind. She'd pretend not to see embarrassing things or she'd overlook a trace of tears. Compassion, that was the word. They were full of compassion.

"You reuse bits of music all the time in your songs," Edith said, trying to break the awkwardness that had fallen upon them. "Is that really any different from a film remake?"

"Of course," Lucille said. "My problem with remakes isn't the remake itself, it's the lack of imagination that goes into it. The same story told the same way with slightly better effects, if that. Retellings and reimaginings and even reboots are different. And with music... Well, that's just theme and variations. That's music theory. For example, every single album we've ever released has a track based around a lullaby from our childhood, but even if you're listening for it you might not hear it. Maybe we've put it into a major key. Maybe we've put the chord structure backwards. Reflected it, so every up tone becomes a down tone and vice versa. Making a new thing out of something old."

"All art is theft, Edith," Thomas said. "And I can't even remember who said that."

"Probably lots of people. It's true. But you have to change it, that's the point. Otherwise it's not art, it's... photocopying."

Edith found herself scrawling that one down. It would sound good as a headline. It raised questions, it would get a reaction.

There was a lot to see in Chicago, she knew that, but if she was going to get the bulk of this thing revised and typed, she really didn't have the time to go out anywhere, much to Lucille's dismay.

"If it's not due until later in the week, surely you can come keep me company," she said as they hauled their stuff up the stairs of a hotel - an actual hotel, not a motel this time.

"I really think I should get it finished."

Lucille grunted, leaning against her suitcase for a moment and then picking it up again.

"You know, I read somewhere that the human brain can only concentrate for two hours at a time," she said. "So you do two hours and then I'll bring you lunch."

It wasn't a suggestion. Edith desperately tried to think of a way out, an escape. She'd been avoiding being alone with any of them, even Finlay. She was scared of giving something away, of being too obvious.

"You don't need to do that."

"I'd like to."

The carry case for the typewriter banged against Edith's shins. She almost hoped it would bruise, just for the distraction. And she knew that was an unhealthy thought and not a helpful one, but she couldn't find much energy to care.

Maybe she should call Alan...

Work first. Rattling keys as she dumped the typewriter onto the little desk, even the rustling of paper upset her, seeming much, much too loud and yet not nearly loud enough.

Two hours. She could do this. This was journalism, it was what she loved. She tried to think back to her college seminars on detachment. They had been more for aspiring television reporters, but the tips they had provided were still useful. Use emotive language, but remain aloof. You can't cry while reading the news, no matter how awful or unjust or upsetting the subject matter.

For God's sake, Edith. They're just musicians. It's hardly a war zone or a famine. It's not a murder.

Where was that quote?

_"You have to change it, that's the point. Otherwise it's not art, it's photocopying."_

_So says Lucille Sharpe before Crimson Peak roll into Chicago for another concert. As someone who has been to all of their performances, I can confirm there is no Xeroxing occuring._

Was that a brand name? Were they allowed? Shit. Maybe it was one of those ones that was so common it was a verb now? She wrote a question to the editor in pencil in the margin. They could always take it out if there was a problem.

_The Sharpes have a deep interest in a sort of Anthropology Americana. They examine the people they interact with like butterflies in a collection, as something beautiful but fleeting. To be under their gaze is to be beneath the microscope. Fortunately, they have not yet brought out the pins._

_Not that their songs aren't spiky. Indeed, perhaps somewhere out there are the inspirations for some of their more explicit story songs, feeling the stab of having been pierced._

Get under their skin. Reveal things. Give insights.

_Though they are striking together in their similarity, perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the Sharpes is in how they differ. As always, performance is different from reality. In private moments, Thomas is restless, doodling or reading, always tapping his fingers. Lucille, on the other hand, has the air of a deep lake, the ripples of the surface barely revealing any turmoil that might lie beneath._

And what that turmoil might be was no one's damn business.

That was the problem. Since that night, along with worrying about her own feelings and Lucille's and where they might intersect, she'd been thinking about the run up. The fight Lucille had obviously had with Thomas.

Which of them had thrown the glass? And why? It wasn't her right to ask. Everything was normal again, or apparently normal. She shouldn't ask. She had no right to ask.

But with the kind of intensity and dependency their lifestyle demanded, any kind of violence should be a red flag. They were barely ever out of each other's sight, each other's company. It couldn't be healthy to live like that, regardless of how heated things got.

Maybe that was why Lucille was so determined to spend time with her. A bit of peace and respite. A little time with someone who wasn't her brother.

Was she being terribly cruel? Here was Lucille doing her very best to be friends and she was interpreting all sorts of things into it that might not be intended. How conceited to think that even if Lucille liked girls that she'd therefore like her. That wasn't how it worked. You weren't necessarily drawn to someone just because they fell into your broad preferred category.

But she was thinking too much again.

Edith forced herself back to her work and wrote up accounts of show after show. She had to take notes every night or they just blurred into one. Half the time, she couldn't even tell where she was when she woke up.

Several hundred words later and there was a knock at her door. A childish urge told her not to answer it. Just pretend not to be in. Like that would work...

No, she opened the door and there was Lucille, fresh-faced and happy, holding out what seemed to be sort sort of artisan salad box as a peace offering.

"Vitamins and minerals for working brains," she said. "I wasn't sure if you'd like tuna, so I just got veggies."

It was delicious, Edith couldn't deny that, sweet chilli sauce countering beets in a way she wasn't sure completely worked but liked anyway.

Lucille sat on the bed, carefully as far from the typewriter as possible, not even trying to sneak a peek while Edith took out her pages and laid them face down. Integrity was important.

"So about the other night," Lucille said with no preamble. "I've been wanting to talk to you about it. I do hope you weren't embarrassed."

"Oh, well, I... It's none of my business."

Head tilted to the side, like a bird of prey contemplating something small and fluffy, Lucille looked at her intently.

"I meant that you were drunker than is perhaps usual for you," she said. "Why, what did you mean? What's none of your business?"

"N... No, nothing."

"Edith... You can tell me, don't worry."

Everything about this situation told her to run, told her not to do this. She felt over-tightened, about to warp and break. Out of her depth.

"You and Thomas had... You had a fight," she said in the smallest voice possible.

It was a subtle difference, the shield going up. A change in the eyes, maybe. Barely visible. Just a hint that internally, Lucille had taken a step back.

"And why would you be embarrassed by that?"

"Because... Because it's private and I intruded."

A softening, faint but there. Edith wondered what answer she'd expected.

"It's difficult sometimes," Lucille said quietly. "Thomas and I have no secrets from each other. None at all. It's hard to have someone who knows you that well, no matter how much you love them. I lost my temper, that's all."

"What about?" Edith asked, the question slipping out before she had even thought about how intrusive it was to ask.

A sigh, not of annoyance. More like tiredness.

"Creative differences. We were sketching out a new song. He was hearing things in my lyrics which weren't there. And I got upset. It was nothing a night of dancing couldn't fix."

She leant back against the headboard, thoughtful as she stirred her own lunch a little, fingers delicate on her plastic fork. Holding it more like a needle.

"I had fun, even if we did drink too much," she said. "And I'm sorry you had to deal with creeps."

She'd barely remembered that what with everything else, the horrible feeling of unwanted hands on her.

"I knew you'd keep me safe," she said, surprised to realise it was true.

A smile. A real, genuine smile without even a hint of artifice. Edith felt almost blessed by it, glad to have made it happen. Maybe Lucille didn't get to play the hero too often.

"Have you nearly finished your article?" she asked. "I feel bad leaving you cooped up indoors when there's so much to see out there."

It was nearly done. And though she had wanted to call Alan, she could always do that in the evening. He was more likely to be both at home and awake then anyway.

And Chicago was nice, as cities went, she thought. Skyscrapers and boulevards and so on probably. Big and important. She ought to go out and see it, since she was here.

"Alright," she said. "Where shall we go?"

The Cultural Center was Lucille's first choice. All gorgeous marble in a rainbow of shades, semi-classical architecture and the fabulous glass dome, the Tiffany ceiling.

"It's like being inside one of those lamps," Lucille said, the yellow-tinted filtered light reflecting off her skin.

"You know, for years I thought that Tiffany's was, like, an upmarket bakery," Edith said. "I'd only heard of the film. I thought they were famous for breakfast pastries."

"And have you ever been?"

"What? To a Tiffany's store? No. Much too expensive for me. Have you?"

Her eyes were drifting to Lucille's jewellery and wondering. Those earrings, that necklace... Could they be worth thousands of dollars? Maybe. Edith couldn't pretend to have much of an eye for that kind of thing.

"Only to look and laugh. My stuff is all either fake or inherited. Plastic and cubic zirconia. If it looks good, I don't much care what it's made of. The ring is real though. Rubies and diamonds, gold."

The famous ring. She never seemed to take it off. In her research before getting the job, Edith had read a lot of theories about it, everything from it being a gift from an old flame who had died - and wearing it on her ring finger could support that - to tin-hat explanations of magic, claims that the stone was in fact glass mixed with blood from one or both Sharpes. 

And considering that in interviews Lucille didn't reveal or deny anything about it...

"If I asked where it came from," Edith said carefully. "Or why you wear it, would you tell me the truth?"

It was difficult to describe Lucille's expression. Not smiling, more thoughtful than that, but with a hint of amusement in there too.

"Depends on what you count as truth."

Well, that was an incredibly helpful answer. Edith decided to bite anyway. What was there to lose?

"Why do you wear the ring?"

"It's important to me."

So far, so not earth-shattering.

"And where did you get it?"

This was a smile now, but all amusement had gone, leaving mischief in its wake. Edith knew before those red lips even parted that she was about to hear pure fiction.

"I took it from my mother's cold, dead finger."

Edith blinked once or twice and then shrugged. If you can't beat them...

"I suppose she wasn't exactly going to miss it," she said.

Lucille let out a cackle that was much too loud for the atmosphere they were in, grabbing Edith's hand and pulling her towards the exit.

It was a nice day, if a little chilly, and there was a large park just opposite, so they took their time walking hand in hand out to see Lake Michigan. It was strangely nice, though Edith still felt awkward, her skin probably horribly clammy. And she still wasn't sure if this was a sign of anything beyond friendly intimacy or not. Or how she felt about that.

It was a lovely place, a huge central fountain surrounded by rose gardens and four smaller ones, water feature statues with odd names. Crane Girl, Fisher Boy, Dove Girl, Turtle Boy.

"Do you think they're actually meant to be children?" Edith asked.

"With abs and tits like that? Hardly."

Was it coincidence that they bumped into Thomas? Or had they decided to meet earlier and failed to tell her? It was difficult to say. Given that he was also heading for the Field Museum, maybe he just so happened to also be out in the sunshine, looking so out of place among the families and older couples in their bright colours and pastels.

"They have the largest Tyrannosaurus Rex ever found," he said, not even a hello in passing. "And apparently she's named Sue."

"Really? That's adorable," Lucille said. "Can't wait to meet her."

There was no tension between them, any storm well and truly blown over as they linked arms. Feeling intrusive, Edith tried to let go, to let their hands drop, but Lucille just squeezed her fingers.

She only let go so Edith could take Polaroids of them surrounded by the bones of long extinct creatures and looking suitably spooky with it.

The red ring had left a little indentation on the meat of her palm.


	10. A Name

First thing to do in Milwaukee was to call Alan. It had been days and Edith was starting to feel guilty. Though it didn't feel like days. Or rather the days all merged together and made it difficult to tell when each began and ended. And napping during the afternoon to keep up with the Sharpes at night wasn't helping.

Their fight seemed totally forgotten. They had reverted exactly to their playful, irreverent selves, singing in the car, commenting on every little thing they saw as either being strange or just the same back at home and then that in itself was strange, wasn't it?

Then again, she doubted their home was exactly normal for most people in England. Allerdale Hall. Edith felt like she'd read the name during her research, but she couldn't remember looking it up.

"How is it?" she asked. "Living in a castle?"

They laughed. They always laughed at her questions.

"It's not a castle," Thomas said. "Not in the real sense. The current house is only mid-eighteenth-century for a start. There weren't too many wars at that point. Not internal ones anyway; we were much too busy invading everywhere else. But there was no need for big defences like you'd find on a fortress. It's more a statement of wealth and power than actual use."

"And of course we've had to gift most of it to the National Trust," Lucille said, slightly bitterly. "So there's always tourists poking around. Though I think of what our mother would say if she knew they were selling organic flapjacks and cafe lattes in the old kitchen and I can't help but smile."

The National Trust. Held for the nation. Virtually held for everyone rather than owned by the family.

"Isn't it awful though?" Edith asked. "I'd hate having people in my house all the time."

"Oh, me too," Finlay said, flicking the blinker on to merge lanes. "I'd be so embarrassed. But I suppose you two are classier than I am."

Thomas smiled at the back of her head.

"I doubt that very much," he said. "No, we have the top floor closed off from visitors and mainly stay up there. It's maybe a little unconventional to have a freestanding oven in the old nursery, but it does us well enough."

How odd to think of them hiding away anywhere. Maybe that was why they liked touring. Getting away from the people snooping around them and their ancestors.

"Is it haunted?" Finlay asked. "I've always kinda wanted to spend the night in a haunted house. A real one, I mean, not a fairground one."

"Well, put it like this," Thomas said. "Our house is a few decades older than the founding of your country. We've had plenty of deaths over the years. We must have had. It wouldn't surprise me if a few of the maiden aunts or crusty grandfathers were still holding on."

Edith shivered a little despite herself. She didn't like thinking of living where people had died. Too active an imagination as a child, too many fears about what was under the bed or under the stairs or under the couch. Always under things.

Years later she'd read about a theory of instinctive fears that suggested little girls were more likely to fear what came from below as female apes slept in trees and therefore feared predation from beneath, whereas male apes patrolled on the ground and so little boys were frightened of things hidden at the side; in wardrobes or behind curtains.

Quite how much store could be put in that, she wasn't quite sure. But she'd certainly never been frightened of the monster in the wardrobe, no matter how often it appeared in films.

Ghosts on the other hand... Maybe at one time she'd wanted to believe in them. Back when... Well, it was understandable. But not so much anymore.

"Where does the word 'Milwaukee' come from?" Lucille asked as they drove past the sign. "Is it Native American?"

Edith wasn't sure, but that sounded plausible. She'd never really given it a second thought.

"Lots of Germans came here," Finlay said, a little tentatively. "But I suppose it would be pronounced Mil-vau-kee in that case."

She was following road signs and soon enough had them pulling into their home for the night, faded three stars on the sign suggesting its heyday had passed some time ago.

Still, it was clean and there were beds and that was what mattered.

"What's the plan for today, then?" Thomas asked. "I'm keen to see the Grohmann Museum, but I'm sure Lucille will want to see the bird's wing at the art museum."

"Of course. But come on, a mechanical wing would be right up your street, I'd imagine. Think of the engineering! Surely you can bring yourself to come with me."

Smiling, cheerful and playful, more like children than adults. They'd been travelling together for... was it weeks now? And Edith still couldn't completely get her head around them.

"I really need to call Alan this morning," she said apologetically. "He'll be really worried if I don't check in."

She was expecting a real telling off from him, if she was honest. They'd had an understanding and she had broken it. He'd have every right to be angry. It was only because he worried.

"You go," she said as they dragged their cases out of the bus. "I'll meet you back here for dinner. Maybe catch up on a little sleep. Maybe write a little."

They didn't much like it, but they relented when she reminded them that it wasn't that far from Buffalo if you took a more direct route. They could tell her where was interesting and she'd come back herself some time.

Wiping down the phone with her antibacterial wipes, like she was wiping off fingerprints. It was amazing how quickly that little ritual had taken hold. Would Alan even be home? She ought to have tried to make a note of his schedule for all that it would be almost impossible to follow.

Ringing. Ringing. A click.

"Hello?"

Edith hadn't expected to be this nervous.

"Hi. It's me."

"Edith? Oh, my God. Where are you? I've been going crazy."

"I know, I'm so sorry. It's been busy, that's all. We just got to Milwaukee."

"And everything's... fine? Nothing's happened?"

Edith thought about broken glass, about shouting, about Lucille cutting off bits of t-shirt and telling Thomas that no, they hadn't slept together and holding hands in Chicago and...

"No," she said. "No, everything's normal."

He exhaled heavily.

"Good. And you're eating right? Getting your veggies? Not just living on chips and coffee? Sleeping OK?"

"Yes," she lied. "Absolutely."

Maybe those were bigger bags under her eyes than normal in the mirror...

"Listen," Alan said, very seriously, even more serious when that hadn't seemed possible. "I've been speaking to the woman I told you about. She can't tell me anything, but she agreed to give me her number to give to you so you can speak to her yourself. Have you got a pen? Her name is Enola Sciotti."

The number he gave her seemed very strange.

"It's Italian," he said when asked. "She's Italian. She's from Milan and she went back there after working for the Sharpes. But her English is perfect."

Edith hesitated suddenly. Call Italy from this phone? But the Sharpes paid the hotel bills and they'd definitely know if she made an international call...

"Alright," she said. "I'll contact her when I can."

"Please do. Seriously."

She'd need to find a payphone.

Were there even payphones anymore? Oh, and then the change... Feeding coins into the slot for hours, how much was it going to cost?

And it was probably nothing anyway. A working relationship that hadn't worked out, that was all.

She couldn't believe that it could be anything more than a misunderstanding. The Sharpes were easy to mistake, she thought. Their humour, their manner; maybe they had offended this girl, Enola.

All the same, she couldn't help but be a little concerned. Maybe she should try to subtly ask Lucille and Thomas about it, get their side of the story. Not directly, but maybe ask if they'd ever travelled with a journalist before. See what they offered about it.

It felt wrong to suspect them somehow. Yes, they sometimes made her uncomfortable, but it wasn't deliberate.

She'd hate to see what it would be like if they were trying.

She managed to find herself things to do. Organising some of the pictures she'd taken over the last few days. She needed more Polaroids already. Was it the publisher who was handling that? Yet another thing to ask the Sharpes about.

No sooner had she got them out of her mind then the pair of them appeared at her door, Finlay in tow, talking about how silly it was they had forgotten about lunch, but they'd seen the most darling park to have a picnic in and she simply must come.

Sitting on a park bench with cheese and sliced ham and crackers - and, yes, they had Lunchables in England too, though Lucille couldn't recall ever actually having them - watching as Thomas let Finlay use his back as a vaguely flat surface on which to write a postcard to her daughter (but mostly her grandson) and Edith felt even more sure that whatever this business was, it could only be a misunderstanding.

They were unlike anyone she'd ever met and, yes, they were strange and sometimes a little tone deaf and maybe their close working relationship got a little intense, but they weren't actively cruel.

At least she didn't think so.

"Have you been on tour before?" she asked, unable to fully get the thought out of her mind. "Overseas, I mean."

"Oh, of course," Lucille said, deftly wiping crumbs from her lips. "We've done a few in Ireland, and in Europe. There's a big goth scene in Scandinavia, so we've been there a few times. Germany. France. Italy. Not Spain yet, but I'd love to go."

Edith's heart thudded in her chest, willing herself not to look guilty. Italy, where Enola was. What had happened? Was that where they met her?

"And did you have someone like me with you on any of them? Or in your studio?"

Was that too obvious? Would they become suspicious at these sudden questions?

Lucille laughed.

"Oh, Edith, I don't think we could have found someone else like you if we'd done interviews for years."

That shouldn't feel as good as it did, being told she was special. And yet she practically glowed with it.

"No, I meant... I meant a journalist, you know."

Lucille shook her head.

"Not a journalist, no. We had assistants sometimes, but that's not quite the same, is it? But no, none of them were like you. You're far more interesting, not to be rude about them. Nice people, mostly, but we were always strictly professional."

Edith blinked a little.

"What do you mean?" she stammered. "Aren't we professional?"

"Oh, just... Well, yes, but I meant that I never went out dancing with any of them, that's all."

Oh... Oh, of course.

Of course that's what she meant.


	11. Time with Thomas

They paid for everything. They were always around. Edith felt unbalanced by the realisation, the fact that the only times she was left alone really were when she was writing and when she was sleeping, and even then, the Sharpes were seldom further away than in the next room.

She could hear them sometimes. Conversations she couldn't quite make out, calling through the bathroom door to one another, laughing.

The laughing was the worst. No matter how much Edith tried to tell herself they weren't laughing at her, part of her couldn't resist thinking that they must be. She was a joke to them. Like when the popular boys at school would ask out plain girls for a dare and then laugh regardless of the answer.

She couldn't sneak out. They'd know. They'd ask what she was doing. They'd think she was breaking contract somehow.

Of course, she could just come up with an excuse. Say she needed to buy a card for an aunt's birthday or something, sneak off. But what if they wanted to come with her? It wasn't like she could say no.

How strange and unsettling to realise she was in a cage.

The question rattled round in her head. How to get a little time? When could she get away from them, just for the length of time it would take to make a phone call?

But to Italy. And to hear... well, what exactly? How long would it take?

She told herself to stop worrying. It was probably nothing. Just a professional dispute. Happened all the time. Alan was just freaking out, like he always did.

Still, maybe she could still learn a little more if she tread carefully. And maybe if she focussed more on Thomas than Lucille.

It almost made her blush to think like that, but he was the more open of the two. Or at least he appeared to be. Then again, she was still suspicious of that fight, the idea of him "hearing something" in Lucille's lyrics. Hearing what? A criticism? A jibe of some kind? Something about himself?

Something important enough that in the ensuing argument a glass was thrown. Edith had had her share of rage, but never even been tempted to do something like that.

Or rather she had, but she'd never acted on it. Think about doing bad things, but don't listen. Ignore the intrusive thoughts. Almost everyone got them sometimes.

Her thoughts had been wandering around all day. How to get him alone, how to get a chance to talk with him and subtly ask about Enola. Not by name, but the same vague questions about previous assistants. Maybe he'd let something slip that he wouldn't while his older sister was listening.

Come on, Edith. Journalists ask things. Bite the bullet and do it.

She waited, smiling through dinner, waiting for her chance. Waiting for Lucille to not be there, even for a second, so she could ask...

Nothing so much as a bathroom break.

"Are we boring you, sweetheart? You seem far away."

Lucille's voice cut through her thoughts like a scalpel. Precise in tone and content to startle her. And it was getting difficult to remind herself that it probably wasn't deliberate.

"No, not at all. I'm just a little tired."

"Do you need to go back to the motel? I can head over with you."

"Please don't trouble yourself."

"I have to go anyway. I left my make-up bag behind."

Edith's heart leapt, though maybe it was more of a lurch. She was going to be away for a while. Not long, but a while. And that meant Thomas would be alone...

"No, I think I'd rather power through or I won't sleep properly tonight. I'll go to soundcheck. Ask Thomas some searching questions."

If she said it jokingly enough, they wouldn't think anything of it. And she gave Lucille her best smile, the nothing-is-wrong smile, the carefree, happiest smile.

She'd learned to fake that smile a long, long time ago.

"Only if you're sure."

She was sure. Incredibly sure. Practically vibrating through the rest of the meal waiting for it to end. Trying to work out how far it was going to be to walk to the concert venue. How even Finlay was going to be busy, not overhearing their conversation, so she could ask him anything.

And then the fear hit. The nerves. The last time they had been alone together, she'd been so far out of her depth that it was a wonder she'd ever resurfaced at all.

Thomas gave her a quick smile as they set out to walk together, Finlay planning to drive Lucille to the motel and back. Which was going to severely cut down on the amount of time Edith had to talk to him, but maybe that was a good thing.

For every step he took, she had to take about one and a third. The rhythm was strange. Jarring.

"What are these hard questions you wanted to ask me, then?" he asked, the hint of a laugh in his voice.

_What happened to your last assistant?_

No. No, she couldn't be so blunt.

"Um... Whose idea was it to start the band in the first place?"

So searching. So deep... Edith could practically hear the thousands of times down the years that the question had been asked before.

"Oh, Lucille's. Absolutely hers. I'm a good enough technical musician, but she's the artist. She was always writing poems and songs and music. It's natural for her. I have to work at it."

He'd given her a proper answer all the same. That was kind of him, she supposed.

"She likes you, you know," he said softly.

"Who?" Edith said, realising how stupid a question it was a second too late.

"Lucille. And that's not something that can be said about many people."

If it was darker, the blush probably wouldn't have bothered her so much, but as it was she quickened her steps to hide it, trying not to seem flustered.

"Do you not like me then?" she asked jovially, reaching for the stage door handle. Make a joke. Shrug it off.

He paused, looking at her as she swung the heavy sheet of metal open.

"I do. I like you very much."

The clang of the door closing echoed in her ears, the crunch of crumbled plaster underfoot, the smell that theaters all seemed to have - paint and smoke and sweat - filling her head.

Why was her heart beating so fast? What did it matter? He meant it in a friendly way, they both did.

Edith thought about the night she and Lucille had been dancing. How the next morning he asked if they'd... If they'd...

The memory still made her feel a little ill. She shouldn't have drunk that much. It was embarrassing. But then that lead to other questions.

If she'd been more sober, would Lucille have done something?

And would it have been unwelcome?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But that wasn't Edith. She didn't do that sort of thing. She didn't act on her desires. Braver people did that, she just sort of waited for sex to happen on someone else's instigation.

So, was she waiting for Lucille to instigate something? No!

Of course not.

"Did Lucille like your other assistants?" she asked, almost chasing Thomas up the corridor towards the stage where the instruments were waiting.

"She tolerated them. Why do you ask?"

Why did she ask?

Because she wanted to know. Wanted to understand what was happening between them all.

"I... I just... wondered."

Even with the auditorium lights on, the actual performance space seemed dazzlingly bright. Edith's instinct was to hang back, to stay out of the way, but Thomas beckoned to her.

"I should check the tuning," he said, as though nothing odd had been said between them. "Would you mind dreadfully helping me? I'll need an A on the keyboard."

Forgotten piano lessons reared in Edith's memory, the boredom of playing scales that meant she never practised and finally quit. She pressed the key only to hear no sound while Thomas waited politely, guitar in his arms.

"You have to turn it on first."

Of course. Of course, how stupid... And, of course, it wasn't plugged in, a Frankenstein of adaptors attaching it to an extension lead and then the wires weren't in at the back so she had to crawl to get them and...

"Ow!"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just... Just a splinter from the floor."

She could feel it, her ring finger throbbing, turning red around the second joint, but she couldn't actually see the tiny shard of wood.

And suddenly Thomas was there, crouched beside her, slightly blurry in the tears that had leapt unbidden to her eyes.

"It's not even that sore," she said, even though it was, it was sharp and urgent pain.

"Let me see."

He took her hand so gently, not squeezing or pressing, looking at it critically and then, to Edith's horror, bringing it to his lips.

The gasp was out before she could stop it as he sucked gently on her flesh, tongue occasionally flicking against her skin, feeling for the splinter. The heat, the care, the way he glanced at her from under his lashes wearing a little frown of concern.

It could only have lasted a few seconds before he let out a little hum and released her, carefully picking the sliver of board from between his teeth.

"Better?" he asked.

Edith looked down at her hand, damp and pink, wiping it on her top without thinking.

"Yeah. Thank you."

He smiled at her, helping her back to her feet.

"When we were children, I was forever getting splinters," he said. "And it was much quicker and easier for Lucille to suck them out than to go crying to Mother. Tweezers and a telling off. No sympathy. It's not bleeding, is it?"

She didn't have time to react before he took her hand again to check. Not much blood if it was.

"My sister feels things very deeply," he said softly and out of nowhere, nearly a murmur that seemed to rattle in her chest, low and startling. "More than other people do. She's passionate and that can make her seem demanding or... smothering sometimes. But you'd tell me if she made you uncomfortable, wouldn't you?"

Would she?

"Of course," Edith said, not sure if she meant it. "And she doesn't. She's... just a little intense. Sometimes."

He smiled warmly at her, easing her towards the piano stool like she might faint.

"Good. We do love having you with us and I'd hate for you to be scared of us."

A dozen thoughts raced through Edith's mind. Broken glass and shouting. Laughter through the walls. Treating everything like a joke and how that made her so frightened that they thought she was one too. The feeling of Lucille's arm around her. The feeling of Thomas's lips against her skin. How frequently they touched her, just a little, just in a friendly way. Fingers at the nape of her neck as they passed behind her. Hands touching as they checked the map. Feeling their breath in her hair as they looked over her shoulder, waiting for a Polaroid to develop.

"You don't scare me," she said, truthfully but so unsure of what emotion her body and brain were trying to express. "But maybe... Maybe you make me nervous."

She turned away, fingers on the keys to find the right note.

"You'll get used to us," Thomas said behind her. "I'm sure you'll relax soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I do not think this is a medically approved way to remove splinters, by the way.)


	12. Rude Awakenings

A sound entered Edith's foggy dreams, distant and distorted, slowly dredging through the mists to her. The room was in darkness and for a moment it was difficult to focus or to believe that she was really awake at all.

The phone? Was that her room phone ringing?

Flopping sideways in a too-soft bed, she lifted the receiver, attempting to mumble a greeting into it, but her lips didn't seem to work. She managed some kind of sound at least.

"This is your five-thirty wake up call, ma'am. Good morning."

"I didn't... I didn't ask for one. You must have the wrong room."

"Room 36, Miss Edith Cushing?"

"Yes, but..."

"And you're accompanying Mr Sharpe?"

Despite her disorientation, Edith felt herself flush red, trying to burrow into the blankets as if she could hide from her own embarrassment. That moment of something like intimacy before the show was still prominent in her mind and when Lucille had arrived, there had been a rush of... of guilt, almost. Like she was lying to her somehow by not mentioning it.

But nothing had happened! What should she do, confess that she'd had a splinter and that Thomas had helped her? It was nothing. It was less than nothing.

And why would Lucille care anyway? It wasn't like they were... They weren't...

"I'm travelling with the Sharpes, yes," she said, wondering how the receptionist could possibly be so chirpy at such an hour.

"It seems they mean to leave at six, ma'am. Long journey ahead?"

Maybe. Where were they on the itinerary? She couldn't even think of it.

"I guess so," she said. "Thank you."

"Good morning, ma'am. Have a nice day."

She'd try, but it hardly seemed likely. Her dad used to say that nothing good happened before seven or after midnight. Go to bed and get up at sensible hours.

Mind you, he also used to say that rain drove spiders indoors and that you couldn't trust a man whose hands were too soft, so maybe she shouldn't put too much store in his wisdom.

Getting out of bed was torture but a shower helped her feel a little more human, throwing her things into her bag without care and dragging both it and the typewriter to the door, only to open it and come face to face with Thomas's middle section.

He moved back from being about to knock, looking her up and down.

"Would you like to dry your hair?" he asked. "I'm sure we have time."

"I... No, it's fine," she said, even though she knew it was scraped into a wet bun that promised to tangle up horribly. "Why didn't you tell me we were leaving so early?"

A smile, a chuckle that might be self-deprecating.

"Well, I always find that if I know I have to get up early, it's impossible to get to sleep. Therefore, I thought if you didn't know, you'd be more rested. It's four hours to Des Moines, give or take, and Lucille is simply desperate to see the instrument collection in Salisbury House. We thought we could arrive there at around ten, spend a few hours and still have time to have an afternoon nap and visit a laundrette before the show tonight."

He'd picked up her bags and set off, knowing she'd follow him. And everything he said made sense. Kind of. Perhaps she was overreacting.

Lucille looked perfectly poised as she loaded up her bags, bare-faced and with her hair in a long braid down her back, smiling at their approach.

"Don't be angry with me," she said, coming forward and laying her hands on Edith's shoulders - damp from her hair, shirt probably gone transparent and showing her bra straps.

"I'm not," Edith said, trying to sound convincing. "Just tired."

"Aw," Finlay said. "I'll try to make it a smooth ride. You get your rest."

Usually, Edith couldn't sleep in cars. No problem when she was a kid apparently. They would soothe her as a baby by taking her out, the hum of the engine helping her drift off. She wondered when that had changed. When the fear of falling asleep in a moving vehicle had slipped into her very being.

Still, she must have been exhausted because she woke with a start and, mortifyingly, something like a snort. Had she been snoring? She didn't _think_ she snored...

Oh, her hair was a thicket, lopsided and knotted.

"We're nearly there," Thomas said from the front seat.

"Wait till you see it," Lucille said. "It's based on a building in England. Some rich guy had it built, even imported 16th-century oak beams for the aesthetic of it. A house built to imitate something that had been knocked down and rebuilt over and over for close to five centuries. Isn't that fascinating?"

"Yeah," Edith said, wishing she could muster up a little more enthusiasm.

Lucille smiled at her and rummaged in the seat pocket until she unearthed a tiny hairbrush.

"Turn round for me. It's the least I can do after waking you up at such an ungodly hour."

In truth, Edith didn't want to. She wasn't a child. She could do it herself. But things were already so awkward. How much worse could it get?

Freeing her hair from the cheap tie she'd put it in, Lucille began easing out the tangles, holding it at the roots to make sure it didn't pull or hurt, humming as she worked.

It wasn't a familiar tune.

"Is that a new song?" Edith asked.

The brush froze in her hair for a moment. Or maybe she imagined it did.

"Yes. Maybe. I'm still playing with it. We both are. But I like what Thomas has done with the music. Just trying to squeeze lyrics into it now."

This was interesting. Their process. They rarely spoke about it.

"Can I hear what you've got so far?" she asked, pushing her luck.

A long pause and then a cough from the front seat.

"I think that's a no, I'm afraid."

Lucille sighed.

"I'm just trying to pick a part I'm sure of," she said. "Let me think about it."

She finished brushing Edith's hair and swiftly put it into a braid like her own. Matching, in different shades.

"She's good, isn't she?" Thomas asked. "She was the only one who could get my hair to lie flat when we were children."

"Wet comb," Lucille said, looking out the window and pointing. "Look. I think we're there."

It was an odd building. Pretty. Edith could easily understand why it had been a passion project. All the same, it seemed so out of place. Out of time.

They were on the wrong day for a guided tour, but they could take themselves round with the help of little information cards in all the rooms. They read about the man who built it - he seemed to have made his fortune by inventing a new kind of face cream - and his wife. She was called Edith too.

"Is that all there is about her?" Lucille asked the friendly volunteer in the dining room.

"Uh..." the woman said, blinking rapidly in a way Edith identified with strongly. The Sharpes brought out that rabbit-in-headlights response. "Well, she had four sons..."

A smile, but one of her false ones.

"Funny, isn't it? So many women in history and all we talk about is who they married and who they birthed."

"And that's if they get talked about at all," Finlay said.

She was examining a statue of the Madonna and child, its antiquity obvious by how decrepit it looked. Edith had a strange urge to try to clean it, but maybe washing it too harshly would damage it beyond repair.

Perhaps it was the unsatisfactory answer that sparked Lucille into mischief. Or maybe she would always have done it. Maybe being that rich just gave you a sense of immunity to the usual rules.

They entered the rooms with the old instruments, some Edith couldn't even name and a large, beautiful, antique piano as a centrepiece. It was enormous, the strings shining like necklaces, a wonderful carving of twisted plants on the side panels.

"Is there a lock on the door?" Lucille whispered.

"What?" Edith asked.

"Close the door and lock it. I've thought of part of the new song I like enough to give you a little preview."

"I don't think we should..."

"Please?"

Edith looked to Finlay, the most adult among them, a former detective no less. Surely she'd put a stop to this.

"I'd like to hear it," she said, shrugging.

Still unsure, Edith found herself walking slowly to the large wooden door and pushing it shut, turning the large brass key that was conveniently in it as Lucille played a chord on the piano.

"Ugh," she said. "Needs tuned, but it will do. Thomas, you play. From the bridge."

Edith had seen them play so many times, but not like this. Not intimate like this, only four people in the room, the pair of them back-lit by the huge window bathing the room in sunlight.

Thomas played a few notes and then began playing an actual tune, though at least he was leaning forward to touch it and not sitting on the delicate-looking stool.

Lucille beckoned, bringing Edith and Finlay forward to look at the little hammers striking the strings. And then she began to sing.

"You don't know," she began before adjusting for the strange notes. "You just don't realise... La-la-la, I haven't quite got this part yet, but then it goes two, three - What are you writing? Won't you write to me some day? Show me the words noted down if you can't get them out..."

Every hair on Edith's body stood on end. She'd had shivers listening to them before, but not like this. Hot and cold and terrified and thrilled all at once. This was about her, she was sure of it. This was a song about _her..._

"Write to me what you can't bear to say, write to me and don't delay, write to me what you don't know and maybe I'll... Maybe I can help you let go..."

What was her heart doing? Did she like it? Was she scared? She didn't know. Nothing made sense...

There was loud hammering on the door, plaintive calling to open it and stop touching the antiques immediately. And Thomas laughed. He was having fun as he headed for the door and began to apologise, explaining that they were professional musicians from England and very sorry but they couldn't resist such a wonderful instrument...

Edith didn't hear most of that. Finlay was trying her best not to giggle and hiding by pretending to look at a painting of some women possibly singing or playing the lute or something...

It was hard for Edith to tell since Lucille had pushed her into an alcove, one hand on her waist squeezing hard, and pressed a harsh kiss to her lips before turning away fast enough to make her almost question if it had happened at all.

No lipstick. No trace.

She was always one step ahead.


	13. Laundry Day

Edith stumbled through the rest of the museum in a daze. What had just happened? Had that just happened? And what did it mean?

Lucille was acting perfectly normally. Or normal for her, anyway. Little biting comments about everything they saw, laughing lightly from time to time and shaking her head.

Was she... Was she hiding? From who? From Thomas? But they were so close, why would she hide if she... liked someone?

By the time they headed back out to the bus, Edith had almost convinced herself that it hadn't happened at all. She was so tired that she'd dreamt it and then forgotten what had and had not really occurred.

"You should sleep," she heard Thomas saying to Lucille. "I can handle the laundry, don't worry."

"No, you always put the wash on too hot and then it all shrinks."

"Good thing you suit undersized things, then."

Something had been sitting at the back of her mind ever since Thomas had mentioned going to a laundromat and now it clamoured for attention. You needed quarters to operate the machines. There would probably be a dispenser of some kind, bigger money in and coins out. She could get change and while the clothes were spinning she could find a payphone and...

"I've already had a nap," she said, even though she was still tired and quite shaken generally. "You should both sleep so you're fresh for the show and I'll go."

Thomas smiled at her. Lucille did not, at first, but then she seemed to brighten up.

"You're an angel," Thomas told her. "But are you sure you can manage? We have quite a lot."

"I used to take all my roommate's stuff down in college. I'm sure I'll be fine."

'Quite a lot' turned out to be quite the understatement. Edith and Finlay's week's worth was only three quarters of Thomas's alone. How had he gone through so many shirts?! Edith stood in the doorway of their motel room trying not to look judgemental as he squeezed it all into a hurriedly emptied backpack.

"I'm afraid her ladyship is still organising herself," Thomas said, dressed in something that might be pyjamas and which was much, much too loose around the neckline.

"I just don't want to forget anything," Lucille snapped, appearing in a short, white silk nightdress that forced Edith to desperately look anywhere else than at her as she took three more plastic bags.

She was turning pink, she knew it.

"I'd say separate out the darks," Thomas said. "But, well, you've seen our outfits."

"Are you sure you can manage?" Lucille asked.

"I'm sure."

Edith had just turned to leave them to sleep when Lucille called her back, reaching under her flimsy nightgown to take off her underwear, folding them neatly before handing them over.

"Might as well," she said.

They were warm from her body, soft and painfully ordinary, just black cotton briefs.

If Edith hadn't been blushing before, she certainly was now as Lucille looked at her with something strange in her eyes, a faint pleading.

"I'll see you later," she said, almost a question, though Edith wasn't sure what she was asking.

"Yes," she heard herself say, somehow, voice almost croaking her throat was so dry.

She was still clutching them unconsciously when she got to the front desk to ask where the nearest laundry place was. After all, surely the girl on reception looking it up on her phone didn't count as her using modern technology, right? She was just asking.

As if that was what she was concerned about as she set out with a scrawled set of directions, looking out for payphones as she went. She was going to betray them. Call someone from their past because despite everything else she was feeling - might be feeling - she didn't trust them.

How could she trust people who lied all the time and who would kiss innocent bystanders and then say nothing about it and leave those people floundering and not sure at all what was going on or where they stood or anything?

Ugh...

The laundromat staff were extremely helpful and friendly, almost overly so, one of them coming to help her separate things out - Thomas apparently forgot his own white, flowing shirts and how little they'd appreciate going in with Lucille's scarlet blouses or any of their jet black jeans.

"Wow!" her new friend said. "This is nice stuff. Where'd you get it?"

"Oh, it's... It's not mine. It's just my turn to do the laundry."

One or other of the Sharpes normally did it. Edith found herself wondering if they went through her pockets hoping to find something interesting.

Several minutes of forced conversation later, she had three machines going - lights, darks and one with anything that looked like it might prefer a delicate wash - and she could finally try casually asking if there was a payphone nearby.

"We have a phone in the back you can use."

"It's an international call, I'm afraid."

The woman looked at her strangely, and no wonder. Who used a payphone these days, especially to call another country?

Eventually, after some discussion, one of the staff said she had a friend who used to call her parents from a sort of internet cafe a few blocks over when her cell got broken and she was pretty sure they had international rates.

Edith cemented her position as someone who would be mentioned at home today by putting a twenty through the quarter machine, setting three aside behind the desk for the dryers, and setting out with her coat pockets faintly rattling.

It was a surprisingly long walk and Edith's nerves did not settle on the way. She'd told Alan she would call Enola. She was just getting it over with.

Italy was not a place people regularly wanted to call, it seemed. The old man running the place scratched his beard and hummed before calling to his daughter to ask her opinion. A ledger had to be produced to find the base charge to call mainland Europe, and only after paying it with a chunk of her coins was she let into a tiny booth with a dusty phone and a distinctly less dusty computer in it.

The keyboard looked very tempting after wrestling with the typewriter, all worn keys, so soft and easy. But no. She was here to load up her quarters and dial Enola's number. And to sincerely hope it wasn't the middle of the night in Italy.

It took a long time to connect, a faint ticking sound in her ear, and then finally the dull buzz of a ring tone.

"Si? Ciao?"

"Am I speaking to Enola Sciotti?"

It would be typical if Edith had somehow had the wrong number.

"Yes. Who is calling?"

"I'm, er... I'm Edith Cushing. I'm working for the Sharpes."

There was a long pause, longer than the time delay, and then Enola spoke with a distinct tone of fear in her voice, her accent going slightly thicker as she whispered.

"Are they with you now? Are they watching you?"

Edith startled slightly. That hadn't been what she expected at all.

"No. No, I'm alone. They don't know I'm calling."

A long exhale.

"Do not trust them. Do not tell them we spoke."

The machine was already beeping at Edith to add more quarters. Overseas calls were expensive.

"I won't, I promise, but I don't have long," she said, loading in coins. "My friend said to call you."

"Yes, Alan. He is very nice. I'm not supposed to talk about it, but..."

"What?" Edith asked, desperate. "What is it? What do you need to tell me?"

"You must understand that they did their best to ruin my life when I asked about it. They made me sign the non-disclosure forms, they threatened me with libel, they refused to give me references, they pretended I'd been inappropriate with Thomas and that's while they fired me when that isn't true and I had to come back to Italy with nothing and..."

"What is it?!"

Enola took a long, damp breath, like she was close to tears.

"I... I don't think the death of their mother was an accident."


	14. Enola's Message

Edith felt her stomach drop through the floor, scrambling for her notebook, pulling the lid off her pen with her teeth.

"Quickly," she said, feeding more quarters into the phone. "Tell me everything."

"It was a car accident, long before I worked for them. The brakes failed. Worn out, an old car and she wasn't wearing a seatbelt. Except... Except they had me clear an office in the house - which wasn't even my job, but they made me do it anyway - and I found the... The piece of paper from the mechanic and it said the, uh... The things for the brakes, you know, the things that make them work..."

"The brake lines?" Edith asked, shorthand appearing on the page almost before the words had gone through her head.

"Yes. They were replaced only a month before. They could not have worn out. I think... I think Thomas or Lucille swapped them for the old ones, knowing it would look like an accident."

No... No, surely not. That kind of thing didn't happen in real life. That happened in TV movies and airport mystery novels. It didn't happen to real people, certainly not without someone being caught.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm certain!"

Alright, the Sharpes were a little... odd, but murder? No. She couldn't believe that.

"I would be offended if someone accused me of killing my mom, that's all. Maybe enough to refuse references."

"You don't understand! It's a game to them. Everything is a game and they don't care who-"

The line went dead. And she had no more quarters.

Edith placed the phone back in its cradle with trembling hands.

What was she supposed to do now? And what was that about being inappropriate with Thomas? Had it really been that he'd been inappropriate with her? Or was it a complete lie, based on nothing?

She wasn't jealous. Just curious. Curious about people the Sharpes used to work with and whether they'd been as off-balanced by them as she was.

She left the cafe even more confused than she'd entered it somehow and made her way back to the laundromat with her mind swirling.

The women there had put her loads on to dry. Very thoughtful of them, nicer than they needed to be. And then she had the embarrassment of asking to use the phone in the back after all. She had an urge to call Alan right away.

He had to be on shift as she heard the robotic voice of his answerphone. It was a relief, really, not to have to share what she'd just learned with him. She needed to sort it out in her own mind first.

"Hey, it's me. I'm in a laundromat in Des Moines. Listen, I called that Enola girl - can you tell her I'm sorry the line went dead? I ran out of quarters. I'll call you after dinner or maybe tomorrow. Bye."

Her voice had sounded so normal. She was proud of that. Almost as proud as she was of coming up with a plan of what to do next.

She separated out Lucille and Thomas's clothes, warm and smelling of something pretending to be jasmine flowers from the machines, but left her own and Finlay's muddled up. She needed an excuse to hang around in her room for a few minutes.

Retracing her steps back to the motel, Edith tried to rehearse how she would ask the question.

"Hey, how would you... Is it possible to... Did you ever hear of someone...?"

When she finally managed to drag everything up the stairs and find the right room number, she had about six different possible ways of saying it.

Finlay yawned as she opened the door, her hair out of its usual bun and standing like a cloud around her head, smiling as Edith hefted the bags in and began making two piles.

"Mmm. I hope they didn't charge you too much. This smells like it's had softener on it and everything."

"They were very nice, but I think mainly admiring of Lucille's things rather than ours if they gave them special treatment."

Finlay chuckled, rolling some socks into balls. There was never going to be a good time to ask, Edith figured. Might as well just go for it.

"How easy is it to stage a car crash?" she asked, avoiding eye contact by folding a t-shirt.

Spluttering. An unexpected question. Obviously.

"Why would a nice young lady like you go asking a horrible thing like that?"

Ah... Ah, why would she?

"Because I... have an idea for a book. A murder mystery."

That seemed to placate Finlay at least a little.

"I told you, I never worked homicide," she said. "But I reckon it'd be hard. Those smart cookies down in forensics can spot all kinds of things. A deliberate crash? Yeah, I'd bet they could detect that. There'd be something wrong with the marks on the road or something."

That ought to have made Edith feel better than it did. Really, she needed more details about the accident before she could decide if Enola's story was credible. And where would she get those? Asking the Sharpes outright would be suspiscious as hell.

"Maybe I won't write it," she said, fishing out the last of her underwear. "Maybe I'll write something nicer."

Worn out brake lines. Not cut, just old. She still couldn't help wondering. That was suspicious, it couldn't be denied.

Oh, she needed a nap... Too many thoughts and feelings and questions and then dinner and the show and notes. Too much for one day.

Lucille opened the door on her third knock, hair mussed from sleep. She looked softer. Glowing almost. Maybe she'd just done her primer.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked. "We've got the travel kettle on. Nice cup of chamomile will help you sleep."

"Oh, no, that's alright. There won't be enough cups. I'll just... I'll... I'll see you at dinner."

Edith wished she hadn't seen the way Lucille had been surprised. Maybe even offended. Certainly confused.

Perhaps she was taking this as a rejection of her advances. Was it a rejection? Maybe. Maybe not. Edith wasn't sure yet. There was a lot to think about. Lucille was her employer, for a start. First job and already considering sleeping with the boss? What a cliche.

And then there was Thomas. Edith couldn't deny finding him attractive too and she didn't think she was good at hiding that. She wouldn't want Lucille getting jealous of her own brother. They were too close, in life and art. The risk of causing a rift was too much.

Enola's accusation sat heavily in the back of her mind, a toad on an egg ready to hatch out a monster.

She didn't want to get involved with murderers or even potential ones. She needed to know more. After all, if they'd been accused of something so awful, maybe that would be enough to get rid of their assistant. And they were quite ruthless - she could easily see them seeking retribution if they were offended.

Oh, God, she hoped Lucille wasn't offended...

The motel bed creaked as she flopped down on it, sending up a faint smell of damp. She just needed to sleep, she figured, kicking off her sneakers and wriggling out of her jeans.

It wasn't easy to drift off with her mind so full, but she must have managed it. Knocking woke her for the second time in twenty-four hours. Dinner already? Ugh...

"Hang on," she called. "One minute."

"It's me," she heard Lucille say. "It's just me."

There was something about the intonation. 'Just.' Alone. Secret, almost.

Edith opened the door, jeans on but not done up. And there was Lucille, clutching a dark red shirt.

"You accidentally mixed this into your own laundry and I want to wear it tonight," she said, stepping inside without being asked.

"No, I didn't."

"No, but that's what I'm going to tell Thomas when he gets out of the shower and asks why I came through here. We need to talk about this morning."

Edith blinked a few times and closed the door, stomach rolling. This was too fast. Too blunt. There ought to be more dancing around first.

The morning felt like it had been weeks ago.

"How did it make you feel?" Lucille asked, sitting down on the very edge of the bed. She didn't bother specifying exactly what she was talking about.

"I don't know," Edith said truthfully.

"Then let's cut it down. Did you dislike it?"

That was cutting it down? Edith paced like a caged tiger, trying to escape the truth.

"No," she said eventually. "No, I... I didn't dislike it."

"Good," Lucille said, standing up. "That's all I wanted to be sure of. Thank you for returning my shirt."

She made it to the door before Edith felt able to speak up again.

"But... But we can't!"

Lucille turned on her heel and shrugged.

"We can't what?"

"We can't... have an affair."

Jesus, who was she? What decade was this?

"An affair? I didn't realise things were so serious."

"You know what I mean," Edith said, blushing angrily. "You're my boss. We can't have a relationship. It's unethical."

Lucille stood at the door, nodding slightly.

"The kiss was an experiment," she said softly. "One we both enjoyed. I was merely suggesting more experiments, not a relationship as such. You could say no to any or all of them. But, frankly, you seem like you could use the closeness. The intimacy. The stress relief. A little fun. Think about it and let me know. No hard feelings either way."

She left. And Edith decided to sit on the floor for a little while, unsure of what else to do.

She didn't want to be anyone's experiment.

And yet the idea didn't completely repulse her.

No strings. Lucille probably wouldn't tell anyone. And she was very attractive, that much was obvious. The thought kept returning to the back of Edith's mind that maybe she could do this, maybe she could get away with it...

Ugh, she didn't know what she wanted.

Or maybe she was just scared to admit it.


	15. Research

Edith almost sleepwalked through dinner, distant and distracted but strangely jumpy all the same, practically leaping out of her chair when Finlay pressed a hand to her forehead to check her temperature.

"You look so peaky."

"I'm fine."

None of them looked convinced, though Lucille was the one who spoke.

"Maybe you should sit this show out. Take an evening for yourself."

It felt like an insult and that made Edith all the more determined to go.

"I just need to freshen up a little," she said carefully. "I can handle it. I mean, I've barely eaten today, that's probably all it is."

Excuses. She knew it. Lucille knew it. And for all that there had been some indication of secrecy, Edith had the distinct feeling that Thomas knew it too. Or at least knew something. So what did that mean? And how much of Lucille's... suggestion was he aware of? It was none of his business really, and yet she couldn't help but wonder what he thought about it. His sister's sex life.

He probably didn't give it a moment's thought. They were rock stars, after all. They probably slept with whoever they wanted and laughed together afterwards.

Finlay was the only one she could trust, and yet Edith felt if she was completely open with her about all her worries and concerns and thoughts that she'd sound irrational at best.

"Don't force yourself," Lucille said. "Don't make yourself ill."

Edith wolfed down her remaining food and excused herself from the table while everyone else was half done. She needed to get away. She needed to be alone for a few moments.

She needed to call Alan.

The smell of anti-bacterial wipes made her feel slightly sick, but she wiped the receiver and buttons down anyway, tapping in the number with the ease of repetition.

Please be home... Please be home?

"Hello?"

A huge sigh of relief. She needed grounding and Alan had always been good at that. Good at being realistic. Good at talking her down.

"Hi," she said, feeling very small and tired.

"Are you alright? You sounded a little shaken earlier."

How could she explain this without sending him into a panic spiral?

Well, for a start she wasn't going to mention murder or that she was considering a fling and definitely not in the same sentence.

"Can you look something up for me?" she said. "I thought I had notes on it, but I can't find them and it's a really sensitive issue. I don't want to just flat out ask about it."

She listened to him chat about his day as he turned on his computer, wishing she could be a better friend and actually take in anything he was saying.

"OK," he said. "Go ahead, what do you need looking at?"

Deep breaths, Edith.

"I need the news reports from when their mother died if you can find it."

Alan went very quiet, making her cringe.

"Why do you need that?" he asked.

"Because... For my articles. I think losing both parents gives an insight into their psyche."

Shallow. Sloppy. Obvious.

He sighed and she could hear him typing.

"OK..." he said. "Right... I've got 'Lady Sharpe Dies in Accident'... I've got obituaries. Ooh, here's one. 'Baronet's Daughter Cleared of Manslaughter.'"

Despite herself, Edith's heart leapt. Cleared? Perfect! An accident. It was a mistake, that was all. All the same, she tried to keep her voice steady when she asked him to read it to her.

"OK. Wow, this is some old web formatting, hang on. Uh... Right, 'Lucille Sharpe, daughter of the late Baronet James William Sharpe of Allerdale Hall, was cleared today of causing death by dangerous driving and manslaughter. She was driving her mother, Lady Beatrice, to a social event when she lost control of her vehicle and collided with a tree, suffering whiplash and fractured ribs. Her mother - who witnesses reported refused to wear a seat belt at any time due to discomfort - was killed instantly.'"

The idea that Lucille had been driving the car... That put a different spin on things. Either it was a very dramatic way to avoid being accused of murder or a clear sign that they had nothing to do with it. Surely the risk would be much too great.

You'd have to be very certain or quite mad to do something like that.

"Does it say anything about what caused it or just that she lost control?"

"It implies that she was accused of speeding but they found that the brake lines had worn out and she was unable to slow down on a hill. She paid a fine of £250 for not ensuring passengers were wearing seat belts. I guess they figured causing your mom's death would be punishment enough. Imagine the guilt."

Edith thought about how much the Sharpes seemed to hate their parents. How badly they spoke about them.

"Yeah," she said. "Must have been awful."

"Are they going to be OK with you writing about stuff like this?" he asked.

Ah. Yes. Write about it.

Come to think of it, she couldn't remember ever hearing them talk about it in all the interviews she'd read and watched. They avoided questions about their family where possible.

And her job was to get the inside scoop. To write things other people didn't or couldn't.

"I guess I'll find out," she said. "What was that you were saying about your new schedule?"

"Oh, it's the worst..."

She wasn't really listening, again. But that was a secondary worry. She was much more concerned about a dreadful idea that had begun to surface in her mind.

If she became intimate with Lucille, then she might be more open to talking about more personal things. Now, arguably that was unethical, but on the other hand they knew that she might write about anything she learned on the tour. They hadn't implied that anything was off-limits.

Of course, she might never work again after this. They could easily blackball her from the industry if they wanted to.

Then again, she could always see what kind of revelations her fishing dredged up and decide whether to share them later... And music journalism had never really been the plan anyway.

Was she just making excuses for herself? Maybe. But maybe that was better than having no explanation even in her own mind.

She had to excuse herself from Alan eventually and get ready, genuinely wanting to freshen up a little. She took a quick shower and used the little motel hairdryer to fluff her tresses out, put on make up, heavier than normal. She wanted to cover up any shadows. She wanted to look the part.

The camera felt like a shield, or maybe a weapon, weighty around her neck. Powerful.

She looked at herself in the mirror, a last check, and suddenly felt a strange calling, pulling out her darkest shade of lipstick to write a message on it.

Yes, she'd have to clean it off before leaving the next day, but as she lined up the camera to take a picture for Lucille, she really didn't care.

It was a pretty good shot. Her hair flowed out around her head, gold like a halo, her face obscured by the Polaroid, her arms seeming more graceful than she thought they were in reality.

She'd tuck the little square photograph into the strings of Lucille's bass when her back was turned. Hide it in the pocket of her coat. Something spontaneous and reckless.

Of course, she just ended up handing it over silently in the back of the bus as Finlay drove them to the venue, watching the way Lucille's frown of confusion turned to a smile as she managed to read what it said in the orange glow from the street lamps.

_Yes. When?_


	16. Picturing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you weren't expecting plot, cos, um...

It was hard to begin writing without worrying that she was committing some kind of betrayal. You couldn't be sleeping with someone and also be planning to write about a time in their life that they'd done their level best to keep private.

Not that they were sleeping together. Not yet anyway. Edith had spent the whole evening during and after the show in a state of nervous excitement. The concerts had always felt like a strange combination of intimate and epic, but Edith flattered herself that parts of Lucille's performance were just for her. Like secret messages.

She sounded like one of those people who became obsessed with celebrities they'd never met, who thought every press conference contained something just for them. But this was different. Those smiles were for her. She knew it.

The night was long. Edith had rather... Well, she'd expected... She'd hoped... that Lucille would come to see her in the night. But then again, how would she explain to Thomas why she was sneaking off in the night?

And besides, she wasn't ready when she really thought about it. She didn't even know how that kind of sex worked and... Well, she knew how it worked, but she'd never done anything like that. The idea of it was almost frightening. It was easy with men; she'd never really had to actively participate much if she hadn't wanted to. They just sort of got on with it.

Not that she'd never had good, fun sex, of course. She'd had her flings and her holiday romances. One or two.

And that's what this would be. A bit of fun. She was a young, open-minded young woman who could totally have sex with her kind of boss.

She really was not good at lying to herself.

On the third night that she spent alone, listening for a knock at the door and not even able to remember where they'd driven to after getting out of the most recent venue, she tried to imagine what it was going to be like.

Or, more accurately, she tried to fantasize.

It was surprisingly easy. She already knew a lot of details to help her. The scent of Lucille's perfume, the way her fingers tended to be on the chill side, the sound of her laugh.

The softness of her lips even.

She started there. They had already kissed, even if it was brief. It wasn't difficult to imagine something longer, more intimate, open lips and brushing tongues. Maybe they'd begin standing? No. No, she didn't want to spend time thinking about the logistics of ending up horizontal. 

Lying on her side, she started slow, imagining cool hands stroking her shoulders and down to her waist. Lucille would reach under boldly, pull off her t-shirt, eager to feel skin.

The rest of her body was warm, Edith remembered from the night they went dancing. Like her heart radiated heat that never made it to the tips of her fingers.

After a moment or two, Edith took off the shirt she was sleeping in, the feeling of the sheets helping her feel more immersed, trying her best to be present within her own mind.

Pulled close, lips against hers, a hand through her hair, maybe gripping there...

Huh. Yeah, she quite liked that idea. She could hardly imagine Lucille whispering sweet nothings to anyone after all. Flint-hard Lucille, sharp and beautiful like a diamond, surely she would be a little rough, soothing any stings with kisses that could easily turn to nips of teeth.

She'd never thought she'd like something like that, but the idea of trying it out with Lucille was exciting. She could feel her pulse quickening, heat rising in her core, lips parting around sighs as she ran her own hands - too warm, too small - over her own body.

Lucille would use her nails. Those always perfect nails, red or black or sometimes deep midnight blue, not hard enough to break the skin or leave marks, but enough to let her feel that she could, that she was holding back. And Edith would have to trust that she would.

Gently, experimentally, she teased her own nipples, gasping at the idea of Lucille exploring her body like this, with fingers and maybe even with her mouth.

She'd like how easily she could make Edith gasp, she'd enjoy having that power. She'd grin, one of her legs pressing between Edith's own, giving her that little bit of friction she was suddenly desperate for.

The heel of her own hand was a poor approximation, her hips jerking forward in search of more, and soon she rolled onto her back, tugging off her underwear.

What would it be like to be totally bare before Lucille? She shivered even to think of it, how she'd be scared, embarrassed, excited, wanting, she didn't know exactly.

Lucille probably wouldn't let her hide behind the blankets as she was doing now. She'd lounge beside her watching her face as her hand strayed lower and lower, running feather-light touches up the line of her thighs before insistently moving between them.

She couldn't pretend it was someone else's fingers, but that didn't really matter. Everything was easy, slippery beneath her touch, eyes clenched shut and her own gasping breath in her ears.

Too much... Not enough... She needed more, she wanted Lucille's lips against her skin and her voice whispering to her, praise perhaps, telling her how good it was of her to let go and let the sensations run through her body.

Closer and closer, fingers moving frantically, she chased her climax, nerves alight with it almost. She could almost hear Lucille chuckling at her predicament, wrist growing tired and aching but so close, so close, slipping one finger inside herself in the hope of getting enough sensation to...

"Ah! Hah..."

She didn't nornally make a sound. She didn't want to risk Alan hearing what she was up to. But it had been so long in coming, she'd worked so hard for it, that the little cry was one more of relief than anything else. Satiety. Completion.

Edith lay in the dark, breathing hard, trying to wipe her fingers on her clothes and not the bed sheets for all the hotel staff probably dealt with worse. Her body hummed, warm and relaxed even awkwardly shuffling her way back into her night things.

It was easy for her to imagine being acted upon. Imagining acting on someone else? That was harder. Stranger.

But she wanted to. She wanted to touch Lucille, wanted to make her feel good.

In a way, she wasn't even sure she was really attracted to women as such. Just Lucille. She didn't want to do this with just any woman, just Lucille.

Then again... it wasn't like she wanted to do stuff with just any man either. And that was an odd thought. She'd always kind of expected to be interested in men and then she was interested in specific men and that was how it was meant to be. Being interested in specific women?

That was a little unexpected.

She lay in bed and wondered why. Why that was surprising to her. She had no problem with anyone else's sexuality, whatever it was. Was it just her own that gave her pause, questioning herself? Whether she knew what she was feeling at all?

Bisexual. It wasn't like she didn't know the word. But applying it to herself? That was a big step. One she wasn't ready for yet.

And yet she could so easily imagine kissing Lucille, moving down her body, between her legs, trying her best with her mouth. Because, despite it all, she liked her. And she wanted to please her. Impress her even.

She sighed, alone in her motel bed, rolled over, and tried to sleep.


	17. Conjecture

Edith pulled her most recent sheet out of the typewriter and screwed it up. No amount of Wite-Out was going to save that bullshit.

The next sheet tore as she tried to insert it and soon had a bloom of red spreading everywhere where she somehow managed to cut herself trying to free it. Stupid machine. Stupid words...

Stupid Edith.

She couldn't type like this, tasting iron from her bleeding finger. Band aid, band aid...

No band aids. Great.

She didn't want to see Lucille. Though she didn't want to admit it, that was the source of this block she had. They'd been through Omaha and Sioux Falls and then driven for days through the - admittedly beautiful - South Dakota wilderness. Which had mostly involved marvelling at beautiful rock formations while the Sharpes kept singing 'Take Me Back to the Black Hills' regardless of which mountains they were actually seeing.

Stupid song followed her into her sleep even...

Meanwhile, her bed remained lonely. And she didn't know why. Lucille wasn't even flirting with her that much. It was frustrating, to say the least. What was this? Did it only count when Lucille was the one making the moves?

Or did she want Edith to take control? Did she want her to make a move?

Well, how was she supposed to do that when Thomas was always there?! She felt hyper-aware of him, certain that he knew what was going on between her and his sister. How he felt about it was a different question.

She crept along to Finlay's room, knocking on the door a little too hard, a few flakes of old varnish fluttering to the floor.

It was evidently later than she thought. Finlay opened the door in her dressing gown, hair loose and wet and skin glowing even more than usual. She'd had a bath.

And she'd clearly been crying.

Edith was a little taken aback. Cheerful, laughing Finlay, crying? It seemed wrong. Completely and horribly wrong. Unnatural even.

"Oh, it's you, sweetheart. Everything alright?"

"I... Uh, do you have a band aid?"

"Of course. Come in."

Bustled into the room, Edith found herself being tended to by the gentle hands of someone who had soothed dozens of skinned knees and paper cuts.

"Oh, it's not so bad," she said. "Fingers are the worst. Always bleed far too much. Heads are much the same."

The sting of antiseptic was almost nice. Grounding.

Dangerous thought. Push it away.

"Are you alright, Finlay? You seem a little..."

"Oh, don't you worry about me. Just reading something sad, that's all. Got myself all worked up about something I can't change."

That sounded familiar.

"Why can't you change it?"

"Well... Mostly because it happened over a hundred years ago. I've been reading about the history of this place. Thought it would be interesting to take a history anthology along, read a little something about every region we pass through. So I've just learned what happened to the people who lived here when the European settlers came. Chopped up the land into farms that were too small to cultivate properly. Sold it back to them at inflated prices in return for citizenship. Imagine that, having no instant right to citizenship of the country you've lived in your whole life. And then I thought about the people who still face that issue now every day and how powerless I am to help with that and... Well, I let myself get a little upset. Injustice never sleeps."

Ah. Well, that did rather make her own worries pale a little in comparison.

Somewhere in the depths of her mind, a voice spoke up. A kind woman from her teenage years. A woman assigned to her.

_You must grieve, Edith. It's not good to store these things up to this extent. Yes, yes, I... I know, Edith, but just because others are going through worse things does not invalidate this feeling for you. Shall we talk about your father, Edith? How is he coping? Is that why you're doing this, Edith?_

She'd hated how often her name was mentioned.

"It's good to cry sometimes," she said out loud.

"Oh, you don't have to tell me. I made a career of being tough. Gotta be tougher than the boys, of course. Can't let them see you cry. No matter what I saw and dealt with, you get through the day and let it out when you're alone. But you've gotta do it. Bad things can happen if you don't."

Yes. Yes, they could.

"Of course, Miss Lucille gets rid of it in her music instead of crying," Finlay continued. "I wonder if it works well enough, though. You see it sometimes. A sadness in her. And in Thomas too, though somewhat less. They could do with letting it out more often, I fear."

Edith forced a smile and nodded. But an idea was growing in her mind now. Something to help with this wretched article.

"We're going into Yellowstone tomorrow," she said. "I hope we'll have time to stretch our legs a little. Get some fresh air."

"Doesn't it smell of sulphur? From the volcanoes?"

"I don't know. I expect we'll find out. Thank you for the band aid. I'll let you get some rest."

It was even later now, but all the same, she managed to force a piece of paper into the typewriter. She had to get this down before it rushed out of her head like water out of a net.

_Forgive me if I begin with a personal confession. I did not cry at my mother's funeral. My father was heartbroken and I wanted to be strong for him and I locked my tears away. I was ten years old._

_Being orphans is something which connects me to the Sharpes. I almost feel as if they knew that about me before employing me to be their tour writer. If I were in a more fanciful mood, perhaps I would call us kindred spirits, in a way._

_I fear however that we feel very differently about our parents' deaths._

Was this going too far? It wasn't like she was accusing them of anything. It was common knowledge that they hadn't got along with their parents. They didn't hide that.

_Of course, it's rather a different situation. I can trace my family back only a few generations of steel workers and laborers. The Sharpes carry their family with them everywhere._

_I am not only talking about the hereditary title of baronet which they have carefully maintained, even for the pure irony of the fact, nor the stately mansion they reside in when at home in England, filled with the belongings and memories of their ancestors._

_It is no secret that the Sharpes did not have a good relationship with their parents. It is in their music, when you know where to look. But what some will not know is that Lucille witnessed her mother's death. She was driving the car when it suffered a fatal accident and was injured herself._

Edith's hands were trembling slightly. Her cut finger throbbed.

_I am yet to ask her about the precise circumstances. It doesn't seem appropriate somehow, not yet. But such an experience cannot have left no mark. A duo who discuss everything from philosophy to cartoons in their lyrics surely haven't missed out a life-changing event like that._

_Unless they don't want to talk about it. Understandable. But that does beg the question of what else they don't talk about. What other things they keep out of sight and reserved only for themselves._

What was she even trying to say? Was she implying that Lucille liked women and ought to talk about that publicly? What right did she have to say someone ought to come out if they didn't want to?

Then again, she wasn't actually saying that. This wasn't pettiness over their stunted love affair. She was just saying that the Sharpes were not as open as they sometimes acted.

_They have a reputation in journalism for changing their answers and stories frequently. In my time with them, I've learned that you can't always trust what they say. But I believe when they sing, there is truth._

_Get out your albums and listen again. Listen well. You might discover something new._

Oh, it would do, wouldn't it? A couple of hundred words for a side column. A few recent Polaroids from shows and on the road and she'd still manage to meet her deadline.

She proofread it in passing, thinking to go to bed right afterwards.

And one sentence needed changed. It would haunt her if she didn't alter it.

She carefully blanked out the word accident and corrected it in black pen - a fatal collision.

After all, she still wasn't completely confident that there was anything accidental about it.


	18. Livers and Love

She hadn't been reading her map well enough. She'd been imagining a brief drive through to Yellowstone, but apparently this was the day they had to cover Montana as well. Hours and hours of driving, getting just north enough to reach Billings and then down to Cody in Wyoming.

To her shame, Edith ended up napping most of the way, being woken up in the early afternoon having entirely missed a whole state.

Thomas smiled at her, his voice soft.

"Where's your article?" he asked. "We're at a post office. There's still time to head off to Old Trail Town."

"To... To what?"

"Open air historical buildings," Lucille said from the front seat, reading a tourist leaflet.

Edith rummaged through her day bag to find the large manilla envelope, entrusting it to Thomas to post. And then it would be done and gone.

"It looks so interesting," Finlay said. "There's a school house and a general store, real old buildings all transported to one place and preserved just as they were."

"Mm," Lucille said. "And the grave of someone called Liver-Eating Johnson. What a nickname to have. I wonder if he drank Chianti with it."

So tasteless. All the same, Edith was a little surprised to see her disapproving look met by Lucille's eyes in the mirror. What expression was that? It wasn't amusement or offence, just... Just observing. Watching. Seeing what she thought.

"Maybe he just really liked liver," Edith said. "Lamb's liver or something."

Of course, it was exactly as Lucille said. He'd sworn revenge for the murder of his wife by a neighboring tribe and reportedly ate 300 people's livers.

"You know," Lucille said as they looked at the man's grave marking, a statue of him upon a horse. "At some point I think it stops being about revenge and starts being about liking the taste."

"Of liver?" Edith said, possibly unwisely.

"Of killing."

It meant nothing. It was just a comment, not an anecdote.

All the same, worry lanced down Edith's spine, like being struck by lightning.

"Well, revenge is very complex," she tried. "Who knows when it's satisfied?"

Lucille hummed slightly. Like she agreed.

What had her mother done to her?

No, no, no, that was jumping to conclusions about both Lucille and the old Lady Sharpe. You could have a bad relationship with a parent without there being some big, dark secret buried away back there.

They explored old cabins each with their own stories of former occupants from outlaws to heroes, the old post office, the school house with its tiny benches and smell of chalk. The amount of skins and horns made Edith uneasy for reasons she couldn't quite figure out.

Or maybe it was something else. The fact that these were real buildings, real things and yet they looked like they were props from a film set. Real things shouldn't look this unreal.

Not the saloon, though. It felt more like a contemporary bar, if you ignored the jugs and the animal heads. Then again, taxidermy was having a resurgence, wasn't it?

Thomas was instantly at the ancient piano, playing a little ragtime with only a few out-of-tune notes. Edith didn't even have it in her to worry about whether that was allowed or not, touching the antiques.

For one thing, she was much, much too worried about the way Lucille was hovering near her at the bar, like she was a flame attracting a moth.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, under the music, out of Finlay's hearing where she was examining the old posters and news cuttings, bright white against the scarlet wallpaper.

"What for?" Edith asked, all innocence.

"You think I've been ignoring you. It's not deliberate. It's just been... hard to get away."

Edith had nothing to say to that.

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to be... flexible."

"Wait, you mean?"

She hadn't meant for it to come out like that. So cutting. But still, Lucille had broken down her defenses, stormed the battlements, overcome the portcullis and then retreated. It didn't make sense.

"Sorry."

That seemed to be a yes. On the other hand, it wasn't like she was going to meet anyone else out here...

Edith gave the smallest of shrugs and blushed at how good Lucille's smile made her feel. They were OK. They still had intent for... things to happen.

She wasn't a teenager anymore, she shouldn't get flustered at being strung along like this. Ugh.

"What even is sarsaparilla?"

She hadn't realized Finlay was nearby, hence an innocent question. Like they'd just been talking about the artefacts.

"Oh, it's... It's a plant, but they made a drink out of it. Non-alcoholic. Temperance movement, you know. An alternative to whiskey."

"This girl knows so much," Finlay said, squeezing her shoulder.

She was being so kind to her, even more than normal. Maybe she'd seemed particularly vulnerable last night. In need of support.

Thomas hit a clump of notes all at once, a horrible, discordant sound, spinning round on the piano stool looking animated and gleeful.

"Lucille, will you play for me?"

"Sounds like you have something particular in mind," she said, smiling wryly at him.

"You're much better at transposing than I am. But we're in Calamity Jane country. Will you play Secret Love for me?"

She chuckled, taking his place and testing the notes.

"You know that after Bill Hickok died, she went after his killer with a meat cleaver? Or so they say. That's the kind of woman I can get behind. Right, what key do you want it in?"

It was interesting to see them try out chords until Thomas was happy. Instinctive almost. In sync with one another.

Lucille's playing was fluid and florid, adding far more ornamentation than Edith remembered being in that song. Still. Pretty.

"Once I had a secret love, that lived within the heart of me..."

Thomas started, a rich tenor. Edith had never heard it sung by a man before. So smooth and gentle, rising and falling in the shy verse before surging up to the triumphant chorus.

"Now I shout it from the highest hill..."

Other people were coming in, following the siren call, some of them even joining in, and applauding politely afterwards as Thomas leant down to whisper something in Lucille's ear and kiss her cheek.

Every inch the loving brother. Maybe she hadn't got a good grip on him after all, Edith thought. One fight didn't mean anything terrible had happened.

When did she start second guessing every little thing?

Whatever he'd said, Lucille seemed to agree, laughing as she started playing something more lively. Showing off. Always ready for an audience.

Thomas left her with a squeeze to the shoulder, coming close to Edith and speaking quietly.

"Are you looking forward to seeing Old Faithful tomorrow?"

She nodded, not wanting to disturb the music.

"I plan to walk some of the route. I'd love for you to join me."

"Lucille's not planning to go?"

He chuckled a little, smiling at her.

"Oh, no. Too much risk of getting a tan. It would ruin her aesthetic."

Edith hesitated. Being alone with Thomas had been very confusing last time. Then again, it could be like exposure therapy. If she spent more time with him, he wouldn't be so scary. And the idea of a real, proper walk in the fresh air was wonderful...

"OK," she mumbled. "Sounds fun."

He slung an arm around her, giving a quick squeeze. There was nothing in it but friendliness and companionable camaraderie.

Her racing heartbeat was probably palpable under his thumb.


	19. Nature

If Yellowstone did have a sulphuric smell, either Edith had got used to it quickly or it was subsumed by the stronger scent of trees, moss and general outside.

After so long in a small bus and then in motels and sweaty concert venues, it was very welcome, even if Edith was kind of dreading having to find conversation with Thomas for a couple of hours.

Finlay pulled into a small car park with a large information board with all the trails marked on it to drop them off. All the way though, Thomas had been consulting a paper map he'd picked up in their most recent motel's lobby. He seemed confident that he knew where they were and where they were going.

He obediently stood still while Lucille rubbed sunscreen into his face and neck, her hand slipping inside his shirt a little to make sure she didn't miss any inch of potentially exposed skin.

"Are you sure you know the route?" she asked from behind oversized sunglasses and a wide hat. How that had survived being in their bags without being crushed, Edith wasn't sure.

"It's well marked and it's not strenuous. We'll be fine. And we have plenty of water and snacks if we get too hungry before lunch."

"Alright. Have fun. We'll see you at the Inn."

Even waving goodbye for a temporary period made Edith nervous. Lucille had lent her a large water bottle and Thomas had a backpack with bug spray and blister band aids and food, everything they might need for a relatively short walk, but suddenly she was thinking about all the things that could go wrong out in the wilderness.

Weren't there bears out here? Wolves and elk and forest fires?

Thomas adjusted the straps of his pack, inhaling deeply.

"That's better," he said, setting off with Edith at his side. "A bit of nature. I've been missing it."

"Do you do much hiking at home?"

"When I can. Lucille doesn't much like it. Parks and gardens suit her, but she prefers mud to come in mask form. Likes her wildness to come from within. I haven't always liked the outdoors. Father used to try to make me go fox hunting and grouse shooting when I was young and I never much took to it."

People passing them had large packs, the occasional tent. Even out here, Edith felt out of place in her t-shirt and sneakers and fraying jeans. They could tell she didn't belong out here, even as they smiled and said hello.

"I've always thought how odd it is that people speak to strangers on a country walk," Thomas said. "In the town, they wouldn't even look at one another, but out here..."

"Maybe they feel like they ought to prove they're friendly," Edith offered. "There's not much by way of police out here. It would be a good place to kill people. For serial killers, I mean. The bodies wouldn't be found for ages, probably. So you say hello and say what a nice day it is to gain a little trust."

"So mistrustful! I don't expect that kind of idea from you."

"Well, maybe I'm more cynical than you think."

It was good to get some exercise, even gently. Her thigh muscles tingled slightly, breathing fresh air, hearing birds and bugs. This had been a good idea after all. Even Thomas was surprisingly good company, talking about the trees and spotting the flash of feathers or flutter of butterfly wings.

"Does this remind you of home, if you do a lot of walking there?" Edith asked once a silence had stretched a little far for her liking.

"Maybe in the summer. Temperature in the mid-twenties. Or, er... I don't know. The fifties Fahrenheit, is it?"

"That's a bit chillier. This is more like the seventies."

"Never can remember the equation for that conversion. I can do pounds to dollars and kilometres to miles and kilograms to the other kind of pounds but temperatures... No. But, yes, the trees are familiar, for the right kind of forest. No oaks, as far as I can see, but they're a little south of our home usually. Of course, the estate's forest was all cleared centuries ago. I considered trying to have it replanted, but the National Trust prefers to keep the grounds as they were when the family were at the height of clay production. I'd love you to see Allerdale one day. The earth is bright red, you know. It's very striking."

"I've seen pictures. Online, when I was researching you."

"Oh, of course. I used to play in it when I was a child. Painting my face like it was make-up. Building mud castles. Of course, I'd be soundly punished for it. The stains were a nightmare to remove, worse than grass."

This was unusual. He was telling her about his childhood without much prompting. The outdoors making him expansive perhaps, feeling free and easy. Still, it seemed like an interesting vein to mine, Edith thought, wearing her journalist hat.

"Were they terribly strict, your parents?"

"Yes. And no, I suppose. They were neglectful more often, but any time they did pay proper attention to us it was to criticise or punish us for whatever we had or hadn't done. Lucille wasn't ladylike enough and would never snag a husband and I had neither a stomach nor a spine. I'm sure they remain thoroughly disappointed in us now if there is an afterlife."

Not ladylike? That was strange.

"But Lucille is so... elegant and poised."

A fond sigh.

"Yes, but she's also headstrong and stubborn. And angry. They felt she ought to behave herself better. By which they meant be more submissive. Or at least less contrary. Idiots. They'd have stripped her of almost everything that makes her who she is if they'd had their way."

"What's she angry about?"

A brief beat, their feet crunching on the ground.

"Is that a trail marker, do you think?"

He acted like he hadn't heard her. It was strange. Then again, maybe he figured he shouldn't be telling her Lucille's very personal business without permission.

It did make it sound as though _something_ had happened though. Something bad.

It put a shiver up Edith's spine. She had so many questions unanswered, but being clumsy in the asking would get her nowhere.

The rain crept up on them. One minute it was a sunny day with a little breeze, the next a heavy shower rolled into view. The trees offered scant shelter, their branches dripping even more heavily upon them.

No coats, not even rain covers. Edith could feel her hair becoming stuck to her scalp, her clothes clinging. And she knew they had to be because Thomas...

Thomas was wearing a white shirt. The rain did what water did to white clothes. It cleaved to his flesh, revealing stomach muscles beneath pale pink skin and dark chest hair and even...

She was looking at his nipples and hurriedly looked away, thoroughly mortified. She was practically sleeping with his sister, this was not right, it was voyeuristic and pervy and wrong.

He laughed, running his hand through soaked hair, slicking it back, just visible out of the corner of her eye.

"Edith," he said gently, and despite the soft tone she practically trembled.

He moved round her, too deliberately for her to turn away without being obvious, doing her best to seem natural as she folded her arms much too high, trying to hide how visible her breasts were through thin cotton.

Water dripped down his face, like tears or like it was caressing his cheeks and lips that he was openly biting while looking at her.

"You know, I really like you, Edith," he said. "There's no pretence about you."

"That's not true," she heard herself say, vulnerable, unable to protect herself.

"Maybe you hide things," he conceded. "But what you show is entirely yourself. You might conceal some of what you are, but you don't try to project something you're not."

He'd come closer and Edith found herself backing away, only aware when her foot slipped off the side of the trail.

"Hey, careful," he said, reaching out for her shoulders. "We can't have you tumbling off the edge."

His hands were so warm and he looked so handsome like this, like all those tortured heroes she'd spent her teenage years reading about, but Lucille was high in her mind, the promise they had almost made to one another...

Or, well, not a promise, but they had an understanding at least.

"I wonder if you realise how interesting you are," Thomas said, looking at her with such intensity, his thumb moving slightly over her collar bone and she couldn't choose which was worse to look at, his practically naked chest or his disarming face and...

"That's why Lucille likes you so much. And why I do too."

"Lucille?"

A chuckle, low and soft.

"I've seen the way you look at each other. She's really quite taken with you. But I see the way you look at me too."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hm. I think you do. But it's your choice. I'm just letting you know that the option is open."

"What option?"

Her voice had risen close to a squeak. She couldn't decide what she was feeling, whether this was frightening or exciting or something else or both.

Thomas wiped a stray hair from her face, his fingertips so soft.

"Perhaps I've misunderstood," he murmured, stepping back.

Edith felt herself slump slightly, out of relief perhaps, but also something worringly close to disappointment. He'd been so close, like he was going to... do something.

If this was supposed to make things less awkward, it had failed miserably. She tottered after him like a baby deer, shaken almost. But he hadn't done anything or said anything bad, not really. He'd just been close to her and stopped her falling backwards and told her he knew about her and Lucille.

"Does Lucille know you like me too?" she asked, voice almost back to normal.

"Of course. We have similar tastes and very few secrets."

"And... And what did she say about... About you and me...?"

"That it was up to you."

"To choose between you?"

A snort.

"Not exactly."

"So, what, you'd share me? Take turns?"

Was that insulting or intriguing? She'd never been wanted by two people before. Not as far as she knew anyway.

It was quite exciting to feel wanted, but want wasn't the same as get...

"If that suited you. But you're not interested, so we'll say no more about it."

That's right, she wasn't interested, was she?

Was she..?

Then again, she'd never get a chance to do this again. And no one would ever know.

"I never said I wasn't interested."

Thomas stopped walking, looking at her in surprise and grinning, that wide, laughing grin he had.

"I knew it," he said. "You are wild."

She felt wild even considering it. Where was her meek, cautious self? Who was this woman who had come on this trip, the one lying and suspecting but also wanting and desirous, and so unlike herself in almost every way? Or was this how she really was? How she would be if she was free?

She needed to call Alan. Alan kept her grounded, kept her herself. Kept her sane.

But Alan wasn't here. Thomas was here and he was approaching her again, curious, leaning down and capturing her lips.

Her arms flew of their own accord, wrapping around his shoulders as she let herself be walked backwards until she hit a tree trunk, solid at her back, scratchy against her scalp.

And then he lifted her, forcing her legs apart for him to step between, something like a whimper escaping her throat as a strong hand ran daringly up the outside of her thigh, stroking hard, the heat from his body so palpable through her sodden clothes...

She pushed against him, getting a confused look as he moved back and put her down.

"Someone could see," she said helplessly. "And I still need to think about it a little. It wasn't a yes. It was a maybe."

He nodded, adjusting his shirt a little.

"Of course," he said. "Of course. Take as long as you need."

Maybe she wasn't so wild after all, she thought, even if her lips felt like they were burning and there was a distinct thrum through her whole body.


	20. Old Faithful

How could she walk into the Old Faithful Inn like everything was normal? She couldn't even appreciate the beautiful building inside or out.

Thomas was getting some looks from other visitors as he swept in. He did look striking, she supposed, so tall and dramatically windswept. She felt like a drowned rat next to him.

"Oh," she heard from somewhere to the left and then Lucille swept towards them. "Look at you! Poor things. Like puppies in a canal..."

Her eyes hadn't reached Edith's face. They were lingering decidedly further down.

Maybe the embarrassment would heat her up enough to evaporate the rain out of her clothes.

Before she really knew what was happening, Lucille was brushing her hair, plaiting it up with practised fingers.

"You look delicious," she murmured softly. "But you're shook up. Everything alright?"

"Mm," Edith mumbled. "Just... talking with Thomas."

The man in question was happily heading towards an impressive wall clock, Finlay offering him tissues to at least dry his face off.

"Talking?" Lucille asked, but with a certain depth to her voice. "And what were you talking about?"

"He asked me a question and I said that I needed to think about it."

Lucille knew, didn't she? She had to know exactly what had gone on.

"Oh, quite right. Take some time. But just remember that I saw you first."

She did know. Good. That was... good.

Edith didn't know how exactly she felt about being claimed like that. She had her own desires after all. She wasn't just a thing, some cake that they both wanted a piece of.

But then again, she was thinking how exciting it was to have kissed Thomas in the woods and Lucille's fingers were brushing the nape of her neck and just that simple touch felt good. Her wants were her own but she wanted them, both of them in slightly different ways.

It wasn't like she was expecting a relationship after all. It was just a fling. It wasn't that deep. Friends with benefits, as they said.

Waiting for the rain to ease, they ended up learning about the history of the building. It was quite patterned, full of the earthquakes and forest fires that came with being in such a dynamic landscape. Edith looked up to the upper floors, out of bounds for being structurally unsafe, and tried not to worry about the roof falling in on them.

"Built with electricity between 1903 and 1904," Finlay said, her voice low, as though they were in a cathedral or a temple. "I never really think about when that must have come in. Power at the flick of a switch."

"Well, in 1850, future Prime Minister William Gladstone famously asked Faraday why electricity was valuable," Thomas said, right in his element with all the engineering. "And he replied, 'One day, sir, you will tax it.' I believe our forebears had the house hooked up to a local grid in the 1890s, but I'm not certain."

"They still stumble across some of the old wires from time to time," Lucille said. "And then it's all panicking and getting the electricians out. Most of it's long unconnected. They'd be much happier if they just kept old cupboards shut."

The shower passed and Edith felt almost damp rather than sodden as they headed towards the geyser itself.

"We'd have had to wait anyway," Finlay was saying, leaflet in hand. "It only goes off every ninety minutes or so."

As a result, the path was busy, full of hikers and families with matching raincoats and sandwiches, bored kids kicking their heels until the steaming crater began to spit plumes of water upwards, little by little.

In a strange way, it reminded Edith of a firework show. Maybe it was the noises people were making, maybe the sense of beauty tied to the knowledge that touching it was a terrible idea.

"Reminds me of something," Lucille murmured, smiling faintly.

There was something about the way she said it that put Edith horribly on edge, hearing Thomas let out something between a sigh and a laugh.

"What?" she asked, not sure she wanted to know.

"An overfull kettle. I hope we can get a cup of tea before we have to set off. I bet they used to drink it straight from the geyser."

"They certainly used to wash clothes in it, apparently," Finlay said. "I'd be worried about losing them, personally. Dropping things in holes in the earth and expecting to get them back again? Doesn't seem likely."

They sold tea in the Old Faithful Inn, but it was rather busy. They elected not to bother, to wait until dinner time. There was water, after all. It wasn't like they were going to get dehydrated.

Edith was ravenous by the time they pulled into their hotel for the night, a family-run place in Jackson, Wyoming. She hadn't even realised her stomach was rumbling over the sound of the engine. Too much energy expended, lunchtime much too long ago.

Come to think of it, had she even had lunch?

"I'm going to shower," Thomas said. "In hot water this time. Any dinner ideas?"

"Lots of it," Finlay suggested.

Yeah. That sounded good. Half an hour to have a quick refresh and then food...

Peeling off her clothes, a faint layer of fluff left clinging to her from rain and then sitting in a hot vehicle all afternoon, Edith felt like she was shedding a skin. Her hair had become looping waves under Lucille's attention, but she couldn't preserve them under the stream of water even if she'd wanted to, swapping the plait for a high ponytail.

She went to knock on Lucille and Thomas's door once she was ready, but got no answer. Maybe they were already downstairs waiting.

Finlay was, at least. She looked very elegant in linen trousers and a blouse, so different to the way she normally dressed, all comfort.

"It's nice to be fancy sometimes," she said. "Besides, you young folk are so effortless. It's really not fair."

"They are. I'm just ordinary."

A light chuckle. Edith wasn't quite sure what that meant.

As if on cue, the Sharpes arrived, each with their hair slicked back. Quick showers if they'd both managed to have one in that time.

The receptionist recommended a local place, nothing too special but the food was hot and filling and the house wine was drinkable. Very drinkable.

No. No getting drunk. She'd made that mistake once before in present company. This was a pleasant night between friends, that was all.

And very pleasant it was too. Laughing together, chatting about what they might see over the next few days. There was an elk sanctuary nearby apparently.

"Which ones are elk?" Lucille asked, casually stroking the stem of her wine glass. "Are they caribou?"

"That's reindeer," Thomas said. "I'm fairly sure elk are just elk. Though it doesn't help that I keep thinking of moose, which I think are different again."

Seeing them talk together by candlelight, Edith was struck by how similar they were. The dark hair, the high cheekbones. Maybe she had a type and that was why she was so attracted to them both.

Maybe her type was faintly snobbish mysteries. It would be typical.

The question of what had happened to their mother had taken something of a back seat in her brain, but it was still there, faintly bubbling away.

"I didn't believe reindeer were real as a kid," she said. "I found out about Santa when I was about eight and just made the assumption that they were mythical too."

She was angling to ask about childhood Christmasses at Allerdale. But just asking outright would be much, much too obvious.

"They're all female, you know," Lucille said, not taking the bait. "Santa's reindeer. The males shed their antlers after the mating season at the start of December while the females keep them through to calving in spring. So they're either females or juvenile males under a year old."

"Do they use them to fight?"

"I think it's for discouraging rivals away from food supplies. Can't grow a strong calf if you have nothing to eat."

"And if you have a biggest knives on your head, I suppose you're getting first choice," Finlay said.

"Sounds like a good system to me."

Thomas was shaking his head and talking about how elk were just big deer, like the red deer in Britain, but Edith wasn't really listening. Her brain had been somewhat short-circuited by the distinct feel of a hand on her thigh.

Lucille was masterly at this. Her eyes were still on her brother, listening intently, but her fingers were trailing up and down Edith's leg, gentle but unmistakable.

Was she turning pink? She couldn't let Finlay know, couldn't let her suspect. It was important somehow. She wanted to try to maintain at least an illusion of professionalism, even if she was failing horribly at it.

She could push Lucille's hand away. She was fairly sure that she'd stop.

But Edith didn't want her to. That soft, tingly sensation was just too good.

The hand stayed there even as Lucille asked the waiter to take a photo of the four of them, the old-fashioned camera getting quite a reaction.

Despite the relatively low light, it was a good picture. Thomas's arm casually on Finlay's shoulder, the paleness of his skin contrasting with hers, Edith slightly pink but in a glowing manner, not like she was embarrassed or drunk.

And nothing visible from the waist down. Any under-table activities safely hidden.

"I hope they use that one," Lucille said, carefully writing the date and place on the border. "It's exactly how I want to remember this trip."

Somewhere along the walk back to the hotel, her hand slipped into Edith's, squeezing lightly.

There was a question hanging in the air between them.


	21. A First

"Goodnight, Finlay."

Cheek kisses and yawning and happy smiles and then Finlay's door clicked shut and Lucille span on her toes, her face impish and keen.

"Shall we?"

Despite herself, Edith felt her eyes slide to Thomas where he was standing behind his sister. Was he really alright with this? Or would he be jealous? She didn't want to cause a rift between them.

Oh, that sounded so conceited...

He winked at her, half smiling.

"Have fun."

It ought to make her feel better, knowing they were all entering into this with their eyes open, but now the nerves had set in.

Her hands were almost shaking as she opened the door to her hotel room, the light seeming much too bright, making her rush to swap its glare for the softer bedside lamp.

"I've never..." she began. "I've never done anything like this before."

"Of course you have. It's just sex."

"Not with... Not with a woman though."

She couldn't even look at Lucille, too nervous, keeping herself half turned away and practically shivering when she felt hands on her shoulders.

"Don't be frightened."

She gently pulled Edith's hair out of its tie and then moved it to the side, her breath so warm against her skin as she began kissing her neck, so softly. Edith could hear her own breathing, shallow and tense, acutely aware of body heat behind her.

And then Lucille's hands began to move, slipping down her body, stroking over her waist and under her shirt, feeling her skin, exploring.

She couldn't hold back the sharp gasp that slipped out when Lucille moved to her breasts, the touch electric even through her bra. The sensation of laughter had her flushing scarlet, embarrassed at being so easily responsive.

"You need this, sweetheart. You're so tense. I'll be very gentle, don't worry. Unless you don't want gentle, of course."

Her voice... Pitched low and almost melodic, somehow dizzying.

Edith thought about her fantasies, of being pleasing, not... Not submissive as such but maybe a little... Maybe a little bit?

"Edith?"

"I don't know..."

"Do you want this?"

"Yes! But I want... I just want to make it good for you."

If she wasn't mistaken, Lucille was thrown for the first time. Confused.

"It will be good for both of us. Come here. Let me look at you."

Her underwire had left imprint marks on her skin, every blemish or imperfection seeming amplified, but Lucille's eyes rolled over her like she was perfect, followed quickly by her hands, down her thighs, up her back, her ass, her stomach, everywhere.

"You are so beautiful," she said softly. "Thomas was quite right."

How could she mention her brother at a time like this?

"What about?"

"That if you were so attractive clothed, nude you'd be irresistible."

She was dreaming this. She had to be. Stunning, aloof rock stars did not find ordinary journalists irresistible. They just didn't.

She needed a distraction and reached for the hem of Lucille's t-shirt.

"It's only fair."

Lucille gave her something of a smirk, peeling off her black jeans, like a snake shedding its skin. How could she look so confident? How was she so sure?

Were those scars on her legs?

Edith didn't have a chance to wonder, finding herself pushed backwards, flopping onto the bed, the breath knocked out of her.

Lucille crawled up her body, her eyes blazing, capturing her lips in a burning kiss.

Was this really only their third? Or fourth maybe? Lucille kissed like she was claiming, like she was taking ownership, and Edith found herself letting her, lying still like a startled rabbit.

A faint grunt and Lucille took her hand, planting it firmly on her back.

"You can touch too, you know," she whispered. "Go on. It's alright."

It was difficult somehow. It felt like trespass. Like she shouldn't. But she made herself be brave, made her hands move, stroking Lucille's back and then lower, feeling the curves of her body, daring to slip down to her thighs...

She was so warm. Her hands were chill, but her body was so warm, rolling to the side and pushing a thigh between Edith's legs.

The pressure was good. Lucille's touch was better. She knew what she was doing.

Edith did not.

Lucille took her hand again, guiding her, the heat, the slick...

"I don't... I don't know what to..."

"Shh... Of course you know. Show me how you like it."

"The angle's wrong..."

A beat and then she moved, turning onto her back and settling between Edith's thighs, almost lying on top of her, heads right next to each other on the pillow.

"Show me now?"

Right. OK. She could do this.

It was strange, reaching down further than usual, touching someone else's flesh. Her body expected sensation that didn't come, a mounting sense of anticipation growing in her core.

Pressure, using her whole hand at first before daring to move her fingers into Lucille's slit, almost lost as she tried to find the right spot through touch alone.

Not entirely alone. Lucille let out a pleased hum, rocking her hips upwards, touching her own breasts in a way that made Edith unexpectedly excited. The red ring glimmered, catching her eye, hypnotising.

Still, she felt very inexperienced, rubbing little circles, hoping it felt good.

"Press harder."

Instructions were good, that was helpful. Lucille moaning was even better, the way her body rolled, breathing growing heavier.

"Mmm... Mm, that's good. A little faster."

She was doing this. She was actually doing this. It was difficult not to feel a sense of shock, of surprise. This was not a situation she'd ever expected to find herself in.

Her wrist was going to start hurting soon but she couldn't stop, especially not when Lucille reached past her, sliding a finger into her own body.

It was easier then. Lucille gasped and almost writhed above her, going tense as she strained towards coming, arcing upwards in a way that put all the weight of her shoulders onto Edith's chest, but it was a good ache, a good, solid, grounding feeling.

And then she was shaking and sighing, eyes closed as she gasped for air, all the tension gone from her body.

She'd done that, Edith realized. Her touch, her fingers. It felt like magic. Powerful somehow.

Lucille kissed her cheek and turned over, sinuously making her way down her body.

"What are you doing?" Edith asked, suddenly feeling nervous again, exposed.

"Taking my turn," Lucille replied, settling between her legs.

She almost wanted to say no. She'd only had a guy go down on her once and the sheer embarrassment of being seen like that had made her panic...

"I..."

"Shh... Just relax."

It felt strange at first. Alien. A sensation she wasn't used to, her arousal still humming within her but tempered by worry and then...

"Oh..."

Then Lucille changed position slightly, moving higher, paying attention to her clit with a strong, impossible rhythm.

Edith gasped, gripping the sheets, feeling the vibrations as Lucille laughed at her.

"See?" she said. "I knew you needed it. No one's ever treated you right. I can tell."

If the color wasn't already high in her cheeks, Edith knew she'd be blushing helplessly.

"Look at me."

"No..."

"Edith."

It was torture, but she did it. She looked down, trying to ignore her own body, focussing on Lucille and her beauty. The way her hair was slipping out of its braid around her face, the hints of pink on her cheekbones, those eyes...

"That's better."

She couldn't keep it up when Lucille bent back to her task though. She seemed to completely lose control of her spine, head tipping back, harsh gasps echoing around the sparse room, all the want and need of the past days culminating in a rushing crisis, finally crying out, almost a yelp.

She never made a sound normally...

Lucille looked decidedly smug as she crawled back up the bed, angling Edith's head as she wanted her for kisses.

And then she sighed happily and got up, pulling on her clothes.

"You're not staying?" Edith asked, dragging the blankets over her body, cold suddenly even as her body glowed.

"Oh, I couldn't. What if Finlay saw me leaving tomorrow morning? I'd rather she didn't have any inkling of the tangles you, Thomas and I are getting into."

That was fair. Maybe.

"But this was fun. We must do it again some time."

She laughed at Edith's expression, being talked about as though she was afternoon tea or something.

Another kiss and she swept out of the room, leaving Edith to tingle and wonder and finally pull on her pyjamas.

It had been fun. She didn't think she'd ever come like that with another person involved before.

And she was definitely, on balance, having thought it through, not averse to doing it again.

Some time.

Some time soon.


	22. Reflection and Ruffled Feathers

The morning after. Edith woke sprawled across the mattress with a faintly heavy heart. She'd felt much the same when she'd lost her virginity, she remembered. Not regret. Not as such. More like disappointment that it couldn't happen for the first time again. There was a loss of potential experiences, different ones, different ways the first time could have happened.

It was a strange, mixed feeling to have.

She showered, examining her memory. A lesbian experience. And not just a kiss or two, but a proper sexual act.

She'd been embarrassingly unsure at the time, but in the cold light of day, she felt somehow accomplished. She hadn't let her fear ruin things. She was so free and... cool, almost.

That was a ridiculous thought. It wasn't some feat of style or even skill.

All the same, sleeping with... _fucking_ rockstars was pretty rock and roll.

She called Alan. It had been a few days. She needed to let him know she was doing well.

He groaned as he answered, distinctly in pain.

"Ooh," she said. "Late one?"

"You are much too cheerful for this time of day," he croaked.

She did her best not to laugh. It was cruel. Poor thing. He got terrible hangovers on the occasions he went out with his resident friends.

"I'm feeling pretty upbeat. Woke up on the right side of the bed, I guess."

"Did you get a breakthrough, then?" he asked, maybe a little reproachful about her good cheer. "About their mother's death?"

He might as well have made her swallow a rock. A hot one, one that would scald her lips and sear her insides. Her stomach dropped, a horrible ache there suddenly.

"Er, no. Not yet. I just had a fun day yesterday. We went to Yellowstone. Got some fresh air and exercise, slept well. It was good for me."

"Nm. Lucky you."

Suddenly she couldn't bear to talk to him. He knew her too well. He'd hear she was hiding something. She ought to have prepared better before even thinking of calling.

"I'll let you go back to sleep," she said.

There was an awkward pause.

"Did I say the wrong thing or something?" Alan asked.

"No, no. It's just you sound like shit. You need to recover. I'll call you tonight if you'll be in."

She'd been having such a good morning...

"You didn't used to say stuff like that."

"What?"

"You said I sound like shit. You didn't used to say things like that."

Hackles well and truly up, she felt herself tensing, angry.

"You do sound like shit," she said. "And in case you forgot, I am an adult. I'm allowed to curse if I want to."

"I never said you weren't, I just meant... It was just a comment, I didn't mean anything by it."

Sure...

She sighed.

"OK. I'll call you later. Bye."

Her unworn pyjamas were still on top of the desk and they wouldn't fit back in her bag for some reason and...

And there was a knock at the door.

She opened it to find Thomas standing there, looking a little surprised that she seemed so frazzled so early.

"Good morning?" he said, a faint question in his tone.

"Hi. Just... Just packing up. Are we leaving?"

"Not just yet. I'm going to get breakfast if you'd care to join me. Lucille's taking her time getting ready but she'll be down soon and Finlay's off for a morning walk."

She didn't exactly have an excuse to not go...

She could feel his confusion. Wondering why she was out of sorts.

"I got the impression from Lucille that you had a good time last night," he said as they walked side by side down the corridor.

Bright red really wasn't Edith's colour, but she couldn't keep it away from her face no matter how badly she tried.

"We did," she said quietly. "It's not that. I called Alan and he made a comment, that's all..."

Thomas span round in front of her at the bottom of the motel stairs.

"You told him? About you and Lucille?"

"What? No! God, no. No, no. It wasn't anything about that. It was nothing. I shouldn't even be mad about it."

He let it go and they headed for what was called a restaurant but seemed more like an open breakfast area. They served bacon and scrambled eggs. Toast. The usual. Thomas ordered on Lucille's behalf from a quiet corner table.

"I was worried that she'd... upset you somehow," he said softly. "Maybe been too rough."

This was not happening.

"I'd rather not discuss... that with you, if you don't mind," she stammered.

After all, it was his sister! Surely he couldn't want to know the details.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding it remotely. "I was... You know, fishing for tips."

She raised her eyebrows, lost.

"Tips?"

"What you like, what you don't like in the bedroom. You never know. Maybe you like things rough."

The combination of the calm voice and attitude had thrown her completely. How could he just talk about it? So openly, where anyone could hear?

"Do you?" she asked, trying to fight back, to unbalance him.

"Sometimes. Depends on my mood. Sometimes I like sweet and sometimes I like to give up control. To let go and know the other person will catch me."

He liked it when other people were rough with him? When women were rough with him? Somehow she'd expected... something else.

She tried to imagine playing that role. Ordering him around. Wrapping her hand around dark curls and _pulling,_ hearing him moan half in pleasure and half in pain, running her nails down his back, making him wait, making him beg...

The plate being put in front of her made her jump.

Thomas smiled knowingly across the table.

"We can discuss this later," he said.

Was Lucille's arrival a blessing or a curse? A welcome distraction, but a different issue in herself...

"What are you two conspiring about?" she asked, slipping elegantly into her seat, spearing a piece of butter for her toast on the tip of a knife in the same motion.

"Nothing," Edith said immediately.

"Ah. Don't worry. We all have our secrets."

Edith thought about their mother. Lady Sharpe. How she'd died. What Enola had said, what she thought she'd found. Secrets everywhere. Secrets she needed to get at.

"Yes," she said automatically, just to fill the empty air.

Thomas chuckled.

"Oh, I doubt you have anything to hide, Edith," he said. "Certainly nothing dark."

She wasn't so sure about that, but she wasn't going to let him twist her around anymore. She'd had quite enough of that for one morning.

"We could find out," she said, slicing her bacon. "You go first."

A beat of silence and then Lucille laughed.

"Be careful, Thomas. She bites."

"Ah, but I like that kind of thing."

"Where are we off to today?" Edith asked, desperate to change the subject. "I've lost track."

Thomas glanced at her, a faint knowing in his eyes. Recognizing her discomfort. Had he been pushing? Testing her limits?

Just playing?

"We're taking a long drive south," he said. "Down to Utah. I can't wait to see the salt flats. I've never been anywhere like that. A little sight seeing if we have time and then into Salt Lake City."

"All I know about Utah is it's where Mormans started. Though I'm sure they're not how I imagine."

"How do you imagine them?" Lucille asked, wiping a tiny speck from her lip without even smudging her make up.

"Oh, I just... I meant the stereotypes. Multiple wives and so on. I mean, you see it on TV, but I'm sure that's a minority."

Then again, were they not in something of a similar situation? Who was she to judge?

"Then again, I suppose if everyone is happy..." she said, backpedalling a little.

"I'd have no problem with it if only it was a little more equal," Lucille said. "They call it polygamy when really it's polygyny. One man, many women. It's only fair that a woman ought to be allowed multiple husbands too."

That made sense, Edith supposed.

"And anyway, the average guy interested in that sort of thing tends to just want a harem," Lucille continued. "They think being polyamorous means they'll get all the sex they want and have none of the emotional responsibility that comes with being in a relationship. If you can't be there for one person, what makes you think you could be there for two or three?"

Thomas set down his mug of coffee with a faint clinking sound.

"Almost sounds like you have experience," he said.

"I've had a proposition or two. Oddly enough, I was never tempted. If it had just been sex then perhaps, but none of that... possessive bullshit. You know, 'I can sleep with whoever I want, but you have to ask first.' It's dumb."

"I can't believe anyone would try that on with you," Edith said quietly.

After all, Lucille was so... spiky. She clearly wouldn't put up with anything like that.

"Never underestimate the stupidity of the overly confident. That's part of why we chose you for this trip, remember? You're clever, but you also knew your limits. You didn't try to blag your way here. Do Americans say blag? It means lying, or twisting the truth slightly. Or it can mean talking your way into getting something."

Edith could feel herself blushing, unsure what exactly to make of that. And the phrase stuck in her mind as Finlay returned from her walk, sticking with her long enough to start making notes for her next article in the back of the bus.

The Wyoming countryside was glorious even as they drove through rain showers, Thomas sat next to her. If she wasn't mistaken, the Sharpes were almost... taking turns with her.

_"Never underestimate the stupidity of the overly confident." Another expression from Lucille Sharpe that seems both straightforward and contradictory._

_After all, anyone who has seen their performances on this tour would be hard-pressed not to describe them as confident. The ambitious set changes from show to show might only be possible for such a small group, often seeming to switch on the fly. If they could be in charge of lighting too, I'm sure they'd like to be._

_Perhaps the confidence is well deserved._

She really shouldn't keep focussing on Lucille so much. People would think she had a crush. Or know she had a crush.

People probably already thought she had a torch for Thomas.

"What do you think of 'fake it till you make it' as a concept?" she asked the vehicle at large.

"Hate it," Lucille said, sunglasses perched on her head.

"Why?"

"Well, generally because if I'm hiding something, I don't necessarily want that to go away. Or I might be performing something I don't want to be the rest of the time."

Hmm. Interesting. Edith glanced at the back of Finlay's head, spotting her frown in the rear view mirror, concentrating on the road. She was not to be spoken in front of freely, but that meant she could equally be a shield.

"Like... vulnerability? Do you think you have to hide that?"

The change in Lucille's demeanor was small but just perceptible. Her shoulders moved forward just slightly, her head tilted to the side.

"We tell stories for a living," Thomas said. "More or less. Vulnerability is useful. It can bring out truth."

"So are they true stories?"

"Depends on your definition of truth."

That wasn't an answer. Not a real answer. Time to go back to her first point of attack.

"I don't think of either of you as vulnerable. Not outwardly. Was it the music industry that hardened you or something else?"

A silence. A bad silence. Finlay glanced at her in the mirror, maybe silently pleading her to stop.

"What are you getting at?" Thomas's voice was calm, but there was a hardness behind his eyes. Like a shield.

And he'd reached through to the front, squeezing Lucille's shoulder. Comforting her.

Ah. Shit. Maybe there was something there, something really, properly private that she shouldn't be prodding at.

"Nothing," she said, looking away. "Nothing, just... Wondering."

The atmosphere was horrible. Good job, Edith. An enclosed space was just the right place to ask an awkward question where nobody could walk away.

"Sorry," she said quietly, trying to sound as sincere as she felt. "That's a hard line. I understand."

Lucille sighed, reaching up to take Thomas's hand, reassuring him she was alright perhaps.

"It's fine," she said. "I understand too. Got to have that killer headline. _Tragedy On Tour: Sharpes Tell All_ maybe. _What Really Happened..._ "

She trailed off and Edith itched to know the end of that sentence. What really happened where? When? To who?

"All the same, I shouldn't pry into your private business," she said carefully. "There are lines that probably shouldn't be crossed between employers and employees."

The look Thomas gave her could have curdled milk. There was definitely something they were hiding and even if she didn't write about it, curiosity was rising right to the brim of Edith's being.

"Curiosity killed the cat," they used to say to her. And then her father said, "Ah, but satisfaction brought it back."

Strange saying. How could they bring the cat back if it was dead? Or was this part of the nine lives thing?

Pretty powerful satisfaction to bring something back from beyond the grave.

But not now. There was far too much tension in the air.


	23. Information and Suspicion

Four hours on the road didn't actually feel very long anymore. All this travelling had started warping Edith's sense of time almost.

Breakfast or no, she was starving by the time the reached Salt Lake City. Ravenous.

"I'm going to take a nap before sound check," Lucille said, dragging her bag out of the van.

"Not coming for lunch?" Finlay asked.

"Just bring me back some crisps and I'll be fine."

Chips, Edith's mind supplied. She felt a little guilty. There was still discomfort in the air.

They were staying in a small boutique hotel, all doilies and frills in place of the functional cleanliness of the motels they'd spent most of their time at so far. It was nice, but Edith felt a little like she was walking into the home of a distant great aunt. There ought to be a bowl of dusty hard candy or a furious cat somewhere.

The receptionist was too young to be that great aunt. She was maybe in her late fifties or early sixties, smiling widely at them.

"Yes, of course," she said as they checked in, fetching keys from a glass cabinet. "We've been expecting you. Miss E. Cushing, Mrs D. Finlay and Mr and Mrs Sharpe..."

"Oh," Edith said awkwardly. "Oh, they're not..."

"Don't worry. Mr and Mrs is perfectly fine," Thomas said, smiling and slipping his arm casually around Lucille's waist. "Technically it's Sir and Lady Sharpe, but we don't stand on ceremony too often."

The poor woman's eyes had gone very wide, stammering apologies. Like she thought some minor royalty had stumbled into her little guesthouse.

"I'm so sorry... Please, let me offer you the honeymoon suite. No extra charge."

"You're so kind," Lucille purred. "Thank you, we'd be delighted."

Edith had a strange feeling as she and Finlay made their way up to the second floor.

"That was... odd," she said.

"They're just playing," Finlay said. "You know how they are. Like kittens with a canary."

Yes. Blood on the carpet and feathers everywhere if you weren't careful.

How had this day gone so wrong? She'd woken with no regrets, feeling good. And now she'd been snippy with Alan and she'd upset Lucille. Ugh. Maybe she'd feel better after a meal, but she wasn't exactly betting on it.

The sunshine seemed to mock her. Too cheerful, too bright. And it must have shown on her face too if the conversation was anything to go on.

"You mustn't torture yourself, Edith," Thomas said, the pair of them and Finlay walking down a quiet street. "You can't avoid what you don't know about. It's not your fault."

He'd changed his tune. Maybe in the five minutes he and Lucille had been alone they'd had a little calming down session.

"It's mainly a defence mechanism, if I'm any judge," Finlay said. "If you don't mind my saying so, I've seen a lot of trauma. People react to it in different ways. Some like to talk, some clam up completely. But I've had more years of experience than you've been alive, I would say."

She was so wise. And Thomas wasn't trying to dispute anything she'd said. That was interesting. It played into some of the vague indications she'd been thinking over.

"So it was... It was trauma?" Edith asked. "That made her... cautious?"

Thomas didn't reply right away. He was examining the menu of a sweet-looking cafe, but clearly decided to keep looking for the time being.

"Both our parents died in traumatic circumstances," he said eventually. "And that wasn't even the full extent of it. What's that Larkin poem? 'They fuck you up, your mum and dad...'?"

"'They may not mean to, but they do'," Finlay supplied.

"Exactly. I don't think there was any lack of intention from our parents, that's all."

An unguarded admission. Or was it? Was this another careful answer, rehearsed and repeated? It was difficult to say.

Edith wanted more though. Much more.

"How did your father... pass?" she asked.

Thomas sighed. He didn't seem distressed though. More like... irritated, and not with her.

"Well, he had a drinking problem, which didn't help matters. It's different with our background, though. If someone living on a council estate - projects I think you'd call the same thing, inner city deprived areas - got up and started drinking at ten o'clock in the morning, they'd be called an alcoholic. Father starting on the port at breakfast and having a few pints over lunch and wine at dinner and then brandy at night was treated like it was perfectly normal. That's just what landed gentry do. Some of them anyway."

"So it was liver disease?"

"No. Stupid man tried to fix the heating in part of the house himself instead of calling in a professional. Ended up with a carbon monoxide leak and of course we didn't have any alarms for that kind of thing. I was away on an orchestral course at the time, but Lucille was home and had to be hospitalized. He could have killed them all. They think Lucille would have died if she hadn't had her window a little ajar."

A horrible shiver ran up Edith's spine. Oh, she felt sick suddenly.

"How old were you?" she asked.

"Fourteen. So Lucille was sixteen. She was in hospital for three days in an oxygen mask. She was very thin at the time, thinner than she is now, and so her body was very badly affected. Selfish fucking idiot. I might have killed him myself if he hadn't done the job for me."

That angry side. Edith thought of the fight she'd overheard, of thrown glasses. He was still something of an unknown, really.

"Mother had been out with friends, as she often was. Came home to find them both unconscious, called ambulances. I think it was a bit of a relief for her, really, becoming a widow. She'd probably have preferred it if they'd both gone though."

What an awful thing to say. Edith was a bit shocked and Finlay clearly was too.

"I don't much feel like a sit-down lunch, do you?" Thomas said, a smile falling into place like a mask. "How about we just get something from 7-11, find somewhere to sit outside? There's got to be a park or something."

Yeah, that sounded good. Something was clawing at the back of Edith's mind, though. Losing one parent in an accident was one thing. Losing both?

Was that less likely? After all, both her parents had got sick and died. It just happened. Some people were unlucky that way.

Still... Enola's voice kept echoing in her mind. She had suspected things. She had suspected foul play. Did she know about their father too?

But in both events, Lucille had been at risk. Thomas just said, she could have died in the gas leak and she was injured in the car crash. Surely that meant she couldn't have had anything to do with it?

But there were those scars on her legs, the ones Edith had only been able to glimpse when they slept together, not look at properly. What had caused them? The accident? Some other incident?

Had someone else done that to her? Or were they self-inflicted?

They hated their parents so much... Could it be more than just a personality clash? Could there be something more sinister there? And could that have driven them to...?

What did she eat for lunch? She had no idea. She didn't taste it.

Both parents dead and Lucille the only witness to what happened. It wasn't like Edith could just ask her about that.

Would she have risked herself? Her own safety? Had she cared about her own well-being at all?

Edith wished she didn't recognize that feeling. She wished it felt foreign and alien and strange. But it didn't. Not really.

"You're miles away," Finlay said gently.

"I... Yeah. Maybe I'm tired."

She wasn't. Not in the sense of wanting to sleep. But she did want this day finished. She wanted to be waking up again, feeling like she could start over.

"Maybe a little nap needed? We should take Miss Lucille something to eat. Sorry, _Lady_ Lucille."

She giggled a little, taking it all in good fun. Was Edith the only one not seeing the funny side? Wasn't it a bit odd to pretend to be married to your sibling?

Maybe it was just to get a free upgrade. Lucille certainly seemed much brighter when they returned and Thomas insisted on having Edith help him deliver a picnic's worth of food.

"You have to see this bed," she said, pulling Edith inside. "It's incredible."

It was certainly... pink. Satin sheets, or at least the polyester equivalent. Lacy edgings. A huge, quilted headboard.

"Do you think it's padded to stop anyone banging their heads?" Lucille asked, leaping onto the mattress. "I mean, seriously. All it needs is to be heart-shaped and it would be perfectly cartoonish."

She seemed to get an idea suddenly, smiling, taking Edith's hand.

"Go get the camera," she said. "I want this immortalized."

What exactly? She'd get to find out, she supposed, obediently going up to her room and returning with the Polaroid.

Thomas was sitting on the bed, casual, his legs extended and crossed at the ankle, looking like a witch's cat in a fairy's cottage. Lucille was excited, grinning at her.

"Do a little photoshoot for us," she said. "It'll be fun."

It started normal. Funny. The two of them so out of place, sitting very primly in their dark clothes. And then Lucille shuffled down onto her back and told Edith to stand on the bed, get a few shots from above with the pink as a backdrop.

They were both looking at her. Like it so often did, the camera became a shield, the clunk and whir of it, pictures falling like leaves, Thomas suddenly breaking eye contact and leaning over to whisper something in Lucille's ear.

They were always whispering together...

In the final picture she'd taken, Thomas was looking away, looking at his sister, lips parted slightly in speech but still somehow achingly handsome.

And Lucille was gazing straight at the lens. Daring. Hypnotic. Challenging and beckoning all at once.

Edith felt like her whole being was exposed. Like she was being pinned down and dissected.

And she didn't like that feeling one bit.

She was the journalist and they were her subjects. She shouldn't be the one on the back foot. She should be in control.

Despite what they'd done together, she couldn't trust Lucille, she was realising. There was so much she still didn't know.

Complacency was the enemy. She ought to be vigilant for any opportunity to discover what had really happened in their past.

She was examining the pictures at the shabby-chic desk with its branded notepaper when Lucille wrapped her arms around her from behind.

"I'm sorry for earlier," she murmured. "I'll talk to you about it eventually. I'm just not ready, that's all."

In spite of everything, it still felt good to be held. Like a cage, but one Edith wanted to stay in.

Maybe because staying on Lucille's good side seemed to be safer than the alternative.

"I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to dredge anything up."

That was a lie. Of course she had. That was her job.

Lucille kissed her neck and Edith tried to imagine her sick in hospital, poisoned by the very air she was breathing.

And wondered whether she'd knowingly taken that risk.


End file.
